'^  LIBRARY^ 


V. 


liNiV'^:iTY  OF 

SAN  DIEGO 


UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 

Donated  in  memory  of 


John  W.    Snvder 


by- 


Els  Son  and  Daughter 


POEMS  FROM  SHELLEY  AND  KEATS 


iJHacmillan's  Pocket  American  anti  lEnglisl)  Classicg. 
'6mo.  Cloth.  25c.  each. 


Addison's  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales- 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments. 

Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustum. 

Bacon's  Essays. 

Bible  (Memorable  Passages  from). 

Blackmore's  Lorna  Doone. 

Browning,  Mrs.,  Poems  (Selected). 

Browning's  Shorter  Poems. 

Bryant's  Poems. 

Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Bui'te's  Speech  on  Conciliation. 

Byron's  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage. 

Byron's  Shorter  Poems.  • 

Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns. 

Carlyle's  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship. 

Carroll's  Alice's  Adventures  in  Won- 
derland (Illustrated). 

Chaucer's  Prologue  and  Knight's  Tale. 

Church's  The  Story  of  the  Iliad. 

Church's  The  Story  of  the  Odyssey. 

Coleridge's  The  Ancient  Mariner. 

Cooper's  The  Deerslayer. 

Cooper's  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 

Defoe's  Robinson  Crusoe. 

De  Quincey's  Confessions  of  an  Eng- 
lish Opium-Eater. 

De  Quincey's  Joan  of  Arc,  and  Eng- 
lish Mail-Coach. 

Dickens's  A  Christmas  Carol,  and  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 

Dickens's  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

Dryden's  Palamon   and  Arcite. 

Early  Anierican  Orations,  1760-1824. 

Edwards'  (Jonathan^  Sermons. 

Eliot's  Silas  Marner. 

Emerson's  Essays. 

Epoch-making  Papers  in  U.  S.  History. 

Franklin's  Autobiography. 

Gaskell,  Mrs.,  Cranford.  [Poems. 

Goldsmith's  DesertedVillage  and  Other 

Goldsmith's  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Grimm's  Fairy  Tales. 

Hawthorne's  Grandfather's  Chair. 

Hawthorne's  House  of  Seven  Gables. 

Hawthorne's  Tanglewood  Tales. 

Hawthorne's  Twice-told  Tales  (Selec- 
tions from). 

Hawthorne's  Wonder-Book. 

Homer's  Iliad.     (Butcher  and  Lang.) 

Homer's   Odyssey.      (T.ang,  T.eaf  and 

Irving's  Life  of  Goldsmith.      [Myers  ) 

Irving's  Sketch  Book. 


Irving's  The  Alhambra. 
Keary's  Heroes  of  Asgard. 
Kingsley's  The  Heroes. . 
Lamb's  Tales  from  Shakespeare. 
Lamb's  The  Essays  of  Elia. 
Longfellow's    Evangeline. 
Longfellow's  Hiawatha.  [Poems 

Longfellow's  Miles  Standish  and  Other 
Longfellow's  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 
Lowell's  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 
Macaulay's  Essay  on  Addison. 
Macaulay's  Essay  on  Hastings. 
Macaulay's  Essay  on  Lord  Clive. 
Macaulay's  Essay   on  Milton. 
Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome. 
Macaulay's  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson. 
Milton's  Comus  and  Other  Poems. 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Bks.  I  and  II 
Old  English   Ballads. 
Out  of  the  Northland. 
Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury. 
Plutarch's    Lives  (Csesar,  Brutus,  and 
Foe's  Poems.  [Mark  Antony.) 

Foe's  Prose  Tales  (Selections  from). 
Pope's  Homer's  Iliad. 
Pope's  The  Rape  of  the  Lock. 
Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies. 
Scott's  Ivanhoe. 
Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 
Scott's  Marmion. 
Scott's  Quentin  Durward. 
Scott's  The  Talisman. 
Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It. 
Shakespeare's  Hamlet. 
Shakespeare's  Henry  V. 
Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar. 
Shakespeare's  Macbeth. 
Shakespeare's   Merchant  of  'Venice 
Shakespeare's   Twelfth  Night. 
Shelley  and  Keats  :  Poems. 
Southern  Poets;  Selections. 
Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  Book  I. 
Stevenson's  Treasure  Island. 
Swift's  Gulliver's  Travels. 
Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King. 
Tennyson's  Shorter  Poems. 
Tennyson's  The  Princess. 
Thackeray's  Henry  Esmond. 
Woolman's  Journal. 
Wordsworth's  Shorter  Poems. 
Washington's    Farewell    Address    an.i 
Webster's  Bunker  Hill  Orations. 


1^1 


^ 


sr 


V 


POEMS   FROM   SHELLEY 
AND   KEATS 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 

SIDNEY   CAELETON   NEWSOM 

TEACHER   OF   ENGLISH   IN  THE   MANUAL   TRAINING 
HIGH    SCHOOL,   INDIANAPOLIS,    INDIANA 


Ne&3  gorft 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

1906 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTKIGHT,    1900, 

Bt  the  macmillan  company. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  August,  1900.      Reprinted  July, 
1902;  August,  1903;  August,  1905;  July,  1906. 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  joint  committee  on  English,  requirements' for 
admission  to  college  recommends,  among  other  sup- 
plementary readings,  selections  from  the  poetry  of 
Shelley  and  Keats.  The  present  volume  includes, 
it  is  hoped,  all  the  more  popular  poems  of  these  two 
authors.  Opportunity  for  choice  is  thereby  given, 
since  the  length  of  time  ordinarily  devoted  to  litera- 
ture in  the  high  school  will  make  it  impossible  to 
read  all  of  the  selections. 

Poems  of  Shelley  and  Keats,  judiciously  chosen, 
are  admirably  suited  to  the  needs  of  the  high  school 
pupil.  Both  wrote  when  young,  and  their  poetry 
embodies  ideas  with  which  young  people  must  always 
be  in  lively  sympathy. 

In  the  introduction  it  has  been  the  aim  to  furnish 
only  such  information  and  suggestions  as  are  easily 
within  the  comprehension  of  the  average  pupil.  For- 
mal criticism  should  be  dealt  with  sparingly  in  the 

V 


vi  PREFATORY  XOTE 

high  school,  yet  it  does  not  seem  advisable  to  ignore 
it  entirely.  When  possible  the  notes  have  been 
written  in  the  form  of  questions.  There  are  instances, 
however,  in  which  a  direct  statement  of  facts  is  neces- 
sary, though  in  the  case  of  Shelley  and  Keats  these 
instances  are  comparatively  rare. 

Inconsistencies  in  spelling  have  been  emended, 
otherwise  the  texts  followed  are  those  of  Dowden 
and  Forman.  The  poems  are  not  arranged  in  chrono- 
logical order. 

The  chief  sources  from  which  information  has  been 
drawn  in  preparing  this  volume  are  given  under  "  Bib- 
liography," though  special  mention  should  be  made  of 
the  Essays  of  Hutton,  Bagehot,  Arnold,  and  Dowden  j 
and  of  the  "  Life  of  Keats  "  by  Colvin. 

S.  C.  N. 

Indianapolis, 
June,  I'JOO. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

1.   Pkefatory  Note 

V 

2.    Introduction  : 

Life  of  Shelley 

.       xi 

Shelley  as  a  Poet        .         .        ... 

.   xxix 

Bibliography 

xl 

Life  of  Keats 

.      xli 

Keats  as  a  Poet 

1 

Bibliography      ...... 

.       Iv 

3.    Poems  from  Shelley  : 

1. 

To  a  Skylark 

1 

2. 

The  Cloud 

6 

3. 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 

.       10 

4. 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane 

14 

5. 

Sonnet,  Lift  not  the  Painted  Veil 

.       17 

6. 

Sonnet,  England  hi  1819     . 

.        18 

7. 

Song  to  the  Men  of  England 

.       19 

8. 

The  Sensitive  Plant     .... 

.       21 

9. 

To  Wordsworth 

..     m 

10. 

To  Coleridge        .         . 

.       37 

11. 

Mont  Blanc 

.      38 

Vlll  CONTENTS 


12.  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 

18.  To  Constantia,  singing 

14.  Hymn  of  Apollo 

15.  Hymn  of  Pan      .        .      •  . 

16.  Arethusa     .... 

17.  Song  of  Proserpine  (while  gathering  flowers  on 

the  plain  of  Enna)  .         .         .   '      . 

18.  Song:  "  Rarely,  rarely  comest  thou  "     ■    . 

19.  To :  "  Music,  when  soft  voices  die  "    . 

20.  Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills   . 

21.  Ozymandias 

22.  Lines  :  The  cold  earth  slept  below 

23.  The  World's  Wanderers     .... 

24.  A    Summer    Evening    Churchyard,    Lechlade 

Gloucestershire 

25.  Time  . 


PAGE 

45 

49 
51 
53 


59 
60 
63 
63 
79 
80 
81 

82 
83 
84 
86 
86 

89 


26.  To  Night     . 

27.  A  Lament  . 

28.  Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 

29.  A  Voice  in  the  Air  singing  ■(  Extracts  from  Pro- 

30.  Asia  answers  /   metheus  Unbound 

31.  Adonais      ....  ...       92 

4.    Poems  from  Keats  : 

1.  Ode  to  a  Nightingale 119 

2.  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 123 

3.  Ode  to  Psyche     . 125 

4.  To  Autumn 128 

6.    Ode  on  Melancholy 130 


coyTEyrs 

.    i^ 

PACK 

G. 

Fancy 132 

7. 

La  Belle  Daine  sans  Merci  . 

136 

8. 

( )  Solitude  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell 

139 

9. 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

139 

10. 

Sonnet  on  the  Sea       .... 

140 

11. 

Two  Sonnets  on  Fame 

141 

12. 

Sonnet  to  Sleep  .... 

142 

13. 

Sonnet  to  Homer 

143 

14. 

Opening  Lines  from  Endymion  . 

144 

15. 

I  stood  Tip-toe  upon  a  Little  Hill 

146 

16. 

Isabella  ;  or,  the  Pot  of  Basil 

156 

17. 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 

182 

ES  : 
1. 

To  the  Poems  from  Shelley         .         .         .         .201 

2. 

To  the  Poems  from  Keats   . 

213 

Index  to  Notes 


219 


INTRODUCTION 


LIFE   ©F   SHELLEY 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  born  in  1792.  His 
family  was  an  old  one,  reaching  back  through,  a  long 
line  of  ancestors  to  Henry  Shelley  of  Worminghurst, 
Sussex,  who  died  in  1623.  Some  authorities  find  mem- 
bers of  the  family  present  at  the  Norman  Conquest ) 
others,  less  easily  pleased,  mention  Henry  Shelley,  an 
officer  in  the  court  of  Henry  VII,  as  a  notable  repre- 
sentative. The  record  is  perfectly  clear  so  far  back  as 
1623 ;  beyond  this  there  is  some  confusion. 

Sir  Bysshe  Shelley,  the  poet's  grandfather,  was  the 
first  member  of  his  own  branch  of  the  family  to 
achieve  distinction.  He  was  born  in  Newark,  New 
Jersey,  North  America,  married  twice  before  he  was 
forty  years  of  age,  amassed  a  great  fortune,  and  died 
in  1806,  a  crabbed,  penurious  old  man.  Timothy,  the 
only  sou,  succeeded  to  his  father's  title  and  estates, 
but  did  not  inherit  the  dash  and  charm  nor  other 
striking  qualities  which  made  Sir  Bysshe  in  his  youth 


Xll  INTRODUCTION 

and  early  manliood  an  interesting  cliaracter^  Indeed, 
there  was  nothing  •  to  distinguish  Timothy  Shelley 
from  the  rank  and  file  of  the  somewhat  stolid  and  com- 
placent squirearchy  of  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Mrs.  Shelley,  whom  he  married  in  1791,  was 
a  lady  of  unusual  beauty,  not  especially  interested  in 
books,  though  a  good  letter-writer.  She  appears  to 
have  been  sensible  and  kindly,  and,  though  possessed 
of  a  rather  violent  temper,  not  inconsiderate  of  her 
children.  Shelley  was  the  oldest  in  a  family  of  six, 
two  boys  and  four  girls. 

At  the  age  of  six,  under  a  Welsh  parson  who  taught 
him  chiefly  Latin,  Shelley's  education  was  begun. 
Four  years  later  he  entered  Sion  House  Academy, 
near  Brentford,  where  the  head  master,  Dr.  Greenlaw, 
superintended  the  instruction  of  fifty  or  sixty  boys  in 
Latin,  Greek,  French,  and  the  elements  of  astronomy. 
After  two  years  here  he  went  to  Eton  and  thence,  in 
1810,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  to  Oxford. 

The  chief  account  of  Shelley's  early  life  at  home 
before  his  entrance  at  Oxford  is  given  by  his  younger 
sister  Hellen.  The  brother  John,  born  in  1806,  was 
too  young  to  be  a  companion,  but  the  four  sisters  were 
associates  and  eager  sympathizers  in  all  his  sports  and 
boyish  pranks.  These  were  many  and  curious.  A 
garret,  long  closed  and  unused,  was  "  undoubtedly  the 
habitation  of  an  alchemist,  old  and  gray,  with  venera- 


INTRODUCTION  Xlll 

ble  beard,  where  by  lamplight  the  sage  pored  over  some 
magic  tome " ;  the  space  above  a  low  passage  must 
be  investigated  in  search  of  a  mysterious  chamber,  the 
lurking-place  of  some  awful  secret.  The  "  Great 
Tortoise"  of  a  neighboring  pond  and  the  "Great  Old 
Snake  "  that  hid  in  the  gardens  were  subjects  of  end- 
less tales  of  enchantment  and  terror,  at  whose  recital 
the  little  girls  would  shudder  and  Bysshe  would 
assume  the  attitude  of  protector.  With  the  aid  of  his 
sisters  he  sometimes  sought  to  give  concrete  form  to 
his  imaginary  world.  "  They  became  a  crew  of  super- 
natural monsters :  the  little  girls  in  strange  garbs 
were  fiends ;  Bysshe  the  great  devil  bearing  along 
the  passage  to  the  back  door  a  fire  stove  flaming  with 
his  infernal  liquids."  Occasionally  his  boyish  spirit 
found  exercise  in  practical  jokes:  "At  one  time  a 
countryman  passed  the  windows  of  Field  Place,  with 
a  truss  of  hay  forked  over  his  shoulders ;  the  intruder 
was  recalled,  and  there  stood  Bysshe,  disguised."  At 
another  time  "  a  lad  called  on  Colonel  Sergison  at  the 
Horsham  lawyer's  house  and  asked  in  Sussex  dialect  to 
be  engaged  as  gamekeeper's  boy ;  his  suit  was  successful, 
and '  then  of  course  there  was  an  explosion  of  laughter ' 
and  the  jester  stood  revealed." 

His  residence  at  school  furnishes  a  decided  contrast 
to  this  happy  life  at  home.  His  p)rogress  under  his 
first  teacher  was  slow,  but  at  Sion  Academy  he  stood 


xvi  INTBOnUCTION 

Hard  eggs  and  radishes  and  rolls  at  Eton, 
And  couched  on  stolen  hay  in  those  green  harbours 
Farmers  called  gaps  and  we  schoolboys  called  arbours 
Would  feast  till  eight." 

In  his  studies  he  did  not  restrict  himself  to  the 
prescribed  course:  Franklin  and  Godwin  among  Eng- 
lish authors,  Lucretius  and  Pliny  among  the  classics, 
were  read  with  unusual  zest.  Interest  in  science 
which  had  been  aroused  at  the  Academy  was  now  in- 
tensified. "Night,"  says  a  schoolfellow,  "was  his 
jubilee.  He  launched  his  fire  balloons  on  errands  to 
the  sky,"  he  performed  experiments  in  physics  and 
chemistry,  the  latter  a  forbidden  subject  at  Eton,  and 
prepared  surprises  for  his  visitors,  not  excepting  his 
tutor.  During  vacation  at  Eield  Place  he  became  the 
master  magician  for  his  sisters  and  younger  friends. 
He  found  endless  amusement  in  teaching  them  the 
mysteries  of  the  galvanic  battery  and  the  uses  of  the 
burning-glass.  His  work  in  science  did  not,  as  may 
well  be  imagined,  extend  very  far.  He  was  impatient 
of  mathematics,  and  science  interested  him  chiefly  as 
a  pleasing  recreation  and  not  as  a  means  of  strenuous 
discipline. 

Shelley's  residence  at  Oxford  continued  less  than 
a  year.  His  one  intimate  friend  there  was  Thomas 
Hogg,  who  has  given  an  interesting  though  not  always 
accurate  account  of   Shelley's  life  at  college.     They 


INTRODUCTION  Xvii 

met  almost  on  the  first  day  in  the  dining  hall  of  the 
University,  and  the  chance  acquaintance  thus  made 
soon  grew  into  a  warm  friendship.  "His  figure," 
says  Hogg  in  describing  his  appearance  at  this  time, 
"was  slight  and  fragile,  and  yet  his  bones  and  joints 
were  large  and  strong.  In  gesture  he  was  abrupt  and 
sometimes  violent,  occasionally  even  awkward,  yet 
more  frequently  gentle  and  graceful.  His  complex- 
ion was  delicate  and  almost  feminine,  of  the  purest 
red  and  white ;  yet  tanned  and  freckled  by  exposure 
to  the  sun,  having  passed  the  autumn,  as  he  said,  in 
shooting.  .  .  .  His  features  were  not  symmetrical 
(the  mouth,  ]3erhai3s,  excepted),  yet  was  the  effect  of 
the  whole  extremely  powerful.  They  breathed  an 
animation,  a  fire,  an  enthusiasm,  a  vivid  and  preter- 
natural intelligence  that  I  have  never  met  with  in 
any  other  countenance.  Nor  was  the  moral  expression 
less  beautiful  than  the  intellectual ;  for  there  was  a 
softness,  a  delicacy,  a  gentleness,  and  especially  (though 
this  will  surprise  many)  that  air  of  profound  religious 
veneration  that  characterizes  the  best  works  and  chiefly 
the  frescoes  (and  into  these  they  infused  their  whole 
souls)  of  the  greatest  masters  of  Florence  and  Rome." 
In  many  respects  the  life  at  Oxford  was  very  pleas- 
ing to  Shelley.  Its  freedom  suited  him,  and  he  did 
pretty  much  as  he  pleased.  He  was  uninterrupted  by 
mischievous  boys,  and  had  much  time  for  recreation 


XVlll  INTRODUCTION 

and  opportunity  for  reading  not  suggested  by  Ms 
teachers.  The  lectures  were  not  satisfactory,  and  he 
took  small  interest  in  them ;  but  to  Hogg  he  seemed 
"  a  whole  University  in  himself "  in  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  he  read,  and,  in  turn,  stimulated  his 
companion.  He  still  gave  attention  to  experimental 
science.  His  room  was  topsy-turvy  with  various  ap- 
paratus and  materials,  but  Hogg's  indifference  and 
occasional  cynicism  dampened  Shelley's  ardor.  He 
was  Shelley's  senior  by  some  years,  and,  there  is  lit- 
tle doubt,  exercised  an  abiding,  and  for  a  time  con- 
trolling, influence  on  him.  With  quick  insight  he 
recognized  his  wonderful  genius.  Though  he  was  too 
much  a  man  of  the  world  to  worship  blindly,  if  at  all, 
Ms  admiration  for  Shelley  was  genuine.  Himself  an 
occasional  writer  of  poetry  and  ardent  lover  of  litera- 
ture, he  found  inspiration  and  delight  in  the  society 
of  one  who  surpassed  him  from  every  point  of  view. 
The  two  walked,  read,  disputed,  all  but  lived  together. 
"  The  examination  of  a  chapter  of  Locke's  '  Essay 
Concerning  Human  Understanding,' "  declares  Hogg, 
"  would  induce  him  at  any  moment  to  quit  every 
other  pursuit."  Hume's  Essays,  the  Scotch  metaphy- 
sicians, and  "  popular  French  works  that  treat  of  man, 
for  the  most  part  in  a  mixed  method,  metaphysically, 
morally,  and  politically,"  were  eagerly  discussed,  and 
the  facts  and  laws  therein  discovered  as  eagerly  and 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

earnestly,  by    Shelley   at   least,    applied   to   existing 
institutions. 

Utopias  have  ever  been  beloved  of  idealists  ;  and 
theories  such  as  the  two  found  in  their  reading  ap- 
l)ealed  with  peculiar  force  to  Shelley.  Oxford  was 
there  to  furnish  a  contrast.  Blindly  subservient  to  the 
past,  the  University  offered  little  to  attract  a  young 
and  ardent  spirit,  bent  on  examining  every  institution 
in  the  light  of  its  own  worth.  And  Shelley,  in  his 
youthful  enthusiasm,  was  learning  to  question.  The 
authors  he  had  been  reading  influenced  him  much ; 
Hogg,  perhaps,  more  ;  and  Oxford,  it  can  hardly  be' 
doubted,  offered  a  silent  challenge.         / 

Soon  after  the  Christmas  holidays  there  appeared 
in  the  Oxford  Herald  an  advertisement  of  a  pamphlet. 
The  Necessity  of  Atheism.  The  pamphlet  was  pub- 
lished very  shortly  after,  and  copies  were  distributed 
throughout  the  University.  It  bore  no  signature,  but 
Shelley  was  supposed  to  be  the  author.  He  was 
arraigned  and  questioned  by  the  authorities,  but  de- 
clined giving  the  desired  information.  Thereupon  he 
was  summarily  dismissed  the  University  upon  the 
charge  of  "contumacy  in  refusing  to  answer  certain 
questions."  Hogg,  of  his  own  accord,  sent  a  note  to 
the  Master  and  Fellows,  protesting  against  their 
course.  He  was  summoned  and  the  same  questions 
asked  Shelley  were  addressed  to  him.  Upon  his  re- 
fusal to  answer,  he  too  was  expelled. 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

Shelley's  offence  has  been  described  as  "  the  rash  act 
of  a  boy  whose  brain  was  at  work,  who  loved  to  im- 
press his  own  ideas  on  others,  and  who  enjoyed  the 
excitement  of  an  intellectual  adventure."  The  fact  of 
his  extreme  yoiithfnlness  certainly  goes  far  toward 
excusing  him,  but  this,  and  whatever  other  palliative 
circumstances  may  suggest  themselves,  did  not  soften 
the  punishment  which  Shelley  suffered  then  and,  to 
some  extent,  during  his  future  life.  The  expulsion 
marks  a  turning-point  in  his  career.  The  attitude  of 
his  father,  already  irritated  at  his  son's  eccentricities, 
together  with  the  treatment  received  at  Oxford, 
aroused  a  spirit  of  defiance  which  so  far  had  been 
latent.  He  refused  outright  to  obey  his  father's  com- 
mands, and  proceeded  to  London  in  company  with 
Hogg.  Two  of  his  sisters,  who  were  at  school  near 
London,  supplied  him  with  money,  sending  it  by 
their  classmate,  a  certain  Harriet  Westbrook. 

In  the  meantime,  through  the  intervention  of  friends, 
Shelley  was  given  an  allowance  of  £200  a  year  with 
permission  to  choose  his  place  of  residence.  For 
a  time  he  remained  at  Field  Place,  but  found  the 
conditions  there  intolerable.  While  on  a  visit  to 
Wales  he  again  met  Harriet,  with  whom  he  had 
been  corresponding.  The  acquaintance,  begun  a  few 
months  before,  now  grew  into  an  intimacy  which 
ended  in  a  sudden  elopement  to  Scotland  and  mar- 


INTRODUCTION  XXI 

riage  there  August  11,  1811.  Shelley  was  nineteen 
years  old;  his  wife,  sixteen.  Timothy  Shelley 
promptly  stopped  the  allowance  upon  hearing  of  his 
son's  marriage,  and  Mr.  Westbrook  refused  to  help 
them.  Before  the  end  of  the  year,  however,  when  Shel- 
ley had  suffered  the  inconveniences  and  anxieties  of 
one  in  debt  with  no  prospect  of  relief,  the  allowance 
was  restored,  Mr.  Westbrook  contributing  a  like  sum. 

The  remainder  of  Shelley's  life  was  ^pent  in 
wandering  to  and  fro.  He  was  drawn  to  Keswick  by 
his  admiration  for  Southey,  whose  principles  at  an 
earlier  date  were  now,  in  a  large  measure,  Shelley's 
own.  Personal  acquaintance  with  Southey  does  not 
seem  to  have  ^increased  Shelley's  regard.  The  elder 
poet  had  grown  conservative,  and  criticised,  too  severely 
perhaps,  some  of  Shelley's  plans  for  reorganizing  so- 
ciety. Some  months  later  Shelley  addressed  a  letter 
to  Godwin,  whom  he  had  never  seen.  "  Your  name," 
he  wrote,  "  I  had  enrolled  in  the  list  of  the  honorable 
dead."  Upon  discovering  Godwin's  place  of  abode 
he  at  once  communicated  with  him.  A  reply  came 
promptly,  warning  Shelley  against  his  attitude  toward 
his  father  and  his  too  eager  enthusiasm  for  reforming 
the  world. 

But  Shelley  was  not  to  be  dissuaded.  Accompanied 
by  his  wife  and  sister-in-law,  he  went  to  Ireland,  where 
he  might  give  aid  in  the  struggle  for  political  indepen- 


XXU  INTRODUCTION 

dence  and  religious  freedom.  Six  weeks  were  spent 
in  Dublin.  He  wrote  one  or  two  pamphlets  and 
published  an  Address  to  the  Irish  People.  When  he 
spoke  before  a  great  audience  met  to  consider  a  peti- 
tion to  the  Prince  Eegent  in  behalf  of  Catholic  Eman- 
cipation, it  misinterpreted  him,  applauding  and  hissing 
by  turns.  "  I  am  sick  of  this  city,"  he  wrote ;  "  the 
spirit  of  bigotry  is  high,  .  .  .  and  prejudices  are  so 
violent,  in  contradiction  to  my  principles,  that  more 
hate  Die  as  a  freethinker  than  love  me  as  a  votary  of 
freedom." 

Not  discouraged,  he  continued  in  his  efforts  to 
emancipate  humanity.  Ui)on  his  return  to  England, 
at  the  small  village  of  Lynmouth  on  the  coast  of 
Devon,  in  company  with  a  friend,  he  employed  himself 
in  floating  boxes  and  bottles  containing  copies  of  his 
pamphlets.  Occasionally  a  balloon  was  loosened  bear- 
ing in  its  hold  A  Declaration  of  Rights.  His  servant 
Healy  was  arrested  and  imprisoned  for  posting  up 
certain  seditious  notices,  and  Shelley  himself  was 
closely  watched  by  government  detectives. 

His  efforts  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  people, 
however,  did  not  end  with  the  promulgation  of  abstract 
theories.  At  Tremadoc  he  exercised  himself  in  vari- 
ous ways  to  relieve  the  poor.  He  visited  them  in 
their  homes,  supplying  food  and  medicine,  gave  money 
m  cases  of  distress,  and  generously  subscribed  £100 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

toward  building  an  embankment  whose  completion 
would  infinitely  benefit  the  laboring  classes  of  the 
neighborhood. 

His  activities  in  this  direction  were  not  successful. 
He  removed  to  London,  where  he  became  more  or  less 
intimately  associated  with  Hogg,  Peacock,  Godwin, 
and  Leigh  Hunt.  The  respect  and  admiration  with 
which  he  regarded  Godwin  were  strengthened  by  a 
more  intimate  knowledge  of  that  philosopher's  ways 
of  thinking.  Nor  can  there  be  any  question  as  to  the 
wholesomeness  of  Godwin's  influence  (more  powerful 
than  any  other  at  any  period  in  moulding  Shelley's 
thought)  upon  him  at  this  time.  He  felt  the  in- 
adequacy of  Shelley's  abstract  doctrines  because  he 
himself  was  the  medium  through  which  they  came. 
He  advised  him  to  study  history,  and  understand  what 
had  been  noble  in  human  character  and  action,  which, 
he  observed,  "  is  perhaps  superior  to  all  the  theories 
and  speculations  that  can  possibly  be  formed." 

At  his  mother's  request  Shelley  made  a  clandestine 
visit  to  Field  Place.  He  had  previously  addressed  a 
conciliatory  letter  to  his  father,  hoping  that  the  "un- 
favorable traits"  of  his  character  might  be  condoned, 
and  that  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  they 
might  "  consider  each  other  as  father  and  son."  But 
Timothy  Shelley  wished  to  impose  conditions  which 
could  not  be  borne.     Shelley  declined  to  renounce  his 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION 

convictions  and  acce]3ted  in  silence  his  father's  refusal 
of  "  all  further  communication." 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  brief  account  of  Shelley 
to  discuss  minutely  certain  vexed  questions  of  his  life. 
Both  his  attitude  toAvard  his  father  and  his  course  of 
action  in  matters  touching  yet  more  directly  the  purity 
and  manliness  of  his  character  have  enlisted  the  ser- 
vices of  those  who  condemn  and  those  who  defend.  It 
is  sufficient  to  state  that  annoyances  and  misfortunes 
at  this  period  made  his  life  wretched.  His  domestic 
relations  were  unhappy.  Extreme  generosity  to  God- 
win and  others  placed  him  at  the  mercy  of  creditors 
who  harassed  him  ceaselessly.  The  death  of  Sir 
Bysshe  Shelley  improved  the  situation  in  some  meas- 
ure, but,  as  if  to  offset  advantages,  entailed  a  settlement 
between  Shelley  and  his  father.  Sir  Timothy  sought 
to  make  Shelley's  younger  brother,  John,  the  heir  to 
the  estate,  but  certain  provisions  in  the  will  prevented. 
Negotiations  dragged  on  interminably,  but  finally 
ended  in  a  partial  settlement,  whereby  Bysshe  re- 
ceived a  yearly  allowance  daring  his  life  of  £1000. 

Shortly  after  the  death  of  his  wife  Shelley  married 
Mary,  the  daughter  of  Godwin  and  Mary  .Wollstone- 
craft.  The  suit  with  his  father  still  continued,  and 
made  his  residence  in  London  necessary.  Early  in 
1817,  relieved  of  this,  he  removed  to  Marlow,  on  the 
Thames,  a  short  distance  out  from  the  city. 


INTRODUCTION  XXV 

Though  impaired  in  health  and  under  the  stress  of 
a  fancied  obligation  to  pay  Godwin's  debts,  he  looked 
back  in  after  years  upon  the  time  at  Marlow  as  one  of 
the  happiest  periods  of  his  life.  Among  acquaintances 
who  visited  him  may  be  mentioned  Hunt,  Peacock, 
Hazlitt,  and  Keats.  Mrs.  Shelley,  a  student  and 
lover  of  literature  hardly  less  eager  than  Shelley,  was 
busily  engaged  with  Frankeiistein,  which  she  finished 
during  the  year.  Shelley  himself  read  and  studied 
much.  English  authors  were  not  ignored,  but  the 
Greek  dramatists  attracted  him  more  strongly.  He 
busied  himself  with  a  translation  of  the  Homeric 
Hymns,  but  his  most  significant  work  was  The  Revolt 
of  Islam,  his  longest  poem.  Though  finding  his  chief 
pleasure  in  social  intercourse  with  his  chosen  friends 
and  in  study,  he  did  not  forget  the  poor.  He  went 
among  them  just  as  he  did  at  Tremadoc,  and  "on  Sat- 
urday evenings  came  his  pensioners  for  their  allow- 
ance, widows  and  children  being  preferred  to  other 
claimants." 

As  winter  set  in  Shelley's  health  declined.  Yielding 
to  the  advice  of  physicians,  he  decided  to  seek  change 
of  climate  in  Italy.  Accompanied  by  his  family,  he 
sailed  early  in  1818,  sojourned  at  Milan  for  two  weeks, 
and  settled  temporarily  at  Leghorn  about  the  1st  of 
May.  Byron,  whom  Shelley  had  met  in  Switzerland 
two  years  before,  he  now  visited  at  Venice.    Julian  and 


xxvi  INTR  on  UCTION 

Maddalo  is  a  veiled  account  of  his  impressions  at  this 
time  of  Bj^ron,  and  a  description,  somewhat  colored, 
of  himself.  He  recognized  the  great  qualities  of 
Byron's  genius,  but  detected  at  once  the  contempti- 
ble elements,  in  his  character.  In  the  course  of  the 
next  three  years  he  learned  to  know  Byron  well,  and 
his  first  impressions  were  strengthened  by  more  inti- 
mate associations. 

Shelley's  life  in  Italy  was  nomadic.  In  England 
he  had  hoped  for  a  permanent  home  at  Marlow,  but 
for  many  reasons  his  wish  came  to  naught.  In  Italy 
his  health  improved,  yet  the  severe  climate  during 
the  winter  in  the  northern  portions  racked  him  with 
pain.  His  place  of  residence  depended  largely  upon 
change  of  seasons.  A  spirit  of  innate  restlessness, 
too,  developed  largely  no  doubt  by  his  wanderings  in 
England,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  remain  long 
in  one  place.  He  visited  all  the  more  famous  Italian 
cities,  Avriting  and  studying  continually.  In  1819, 
Shelley's  anyius  mirabiUs,  he  finished,  at  Florence, 
Prometheus  Unbound,  begun  at  Este,  a  villa  near 
Venice.  The  Cenci,  Mask  of  Anarchy,  Peter  Bell  the 
TJiird,  Ode  to  Naples,  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  with  one 
or  two  shorter  but  exquisite  lyrics,  complete  the  list  of 
his  poetical  creations  for  the  year,  and  bear  evidence 
to  the  unusual  vigor  of  his  literary  activity. 

From  January,  1820,  till  the  close  of  his  life,  Shelley 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

resided  the  greater  part  of  tlie  time  at  Pisa.  Byron 
joined  him  there,  and  the  two  decided  to  start  a  new 
periodical,  The  Liberal.  Hunt,  who  had  been  ill  at 
home  in  England,  was  asked  to  be  the  editor.  The 
circle  of  friends  was  increased  during  the  year  by  the 
arrival  of  Trelawny,  who  had  become  acquainted  with 
Shelley  sometime  earlier  through  their  common  friend, 
Edward  Williams.  Trelawny  has  given' an  extremely 
interesting  account  of  Shelley's  last  days  in  his  Rec- 
ollections. The  three  friends  were  passionately  fond 
of  the  sea,  and  it  was  agreed  to  spend  the  summer 
months  on  the  coast  of  the  Bay  of  Spezzia. 

In  the  meantime  Shelley  was  writing  enthusiastic 
letters  to  Hunt,  urging  him  to  make  all  haste.  Sick- 
ness and  other  misfortunes  made  it  necessary  to  fur- 
nish Hunt  with  money  for  the  voyage  and  to  provide 
for  the  comfort  of  himself  and  family  during  their 
first  days  in  Italy.  On  June  19,  1822,  the  long 
wished  for  arrival  was  announced.  In  company  with 
Williams  and  a  boy  who  should  manage  the  boat,  Shel- 
ley sailed  for  Leghorn,  where  he  met  Byron  and  Hunt. 
After  much  vacillation  on  the  part  of  Byron,  definite 
arrangements  were  made  for  the  publication  of  The 
Liberal.  Among  other  things  Hunt  should  have  the 
copyright  of  Tlie  Vision  of  Judgment  for  the  first  num- 
ber, which  "  is  more  than  enough,"  wrote  Shelley,  "  to 
set  up  the  Journal." 


xxvill  INTRODUCTION 

On  July  8,  with  his  two  companions,  Shelley  started 
on  his  return  voyage  across  the  bay.  The  weather 
was  threatening,  and  Hunt  begged  him  to  wait.  Ten 
miles  out  the  boat  was  observed  by  friends  in  Leghorn, 
then  a  mist  and  spray  thrown  up  by  the  thunder-squall 
hid  it  from  view.  The  storm  passed  in  twenty  minutes, 
and  Trelawny  eagerly  scanned  the  horizon,  but  Shel- 
ley's boat  had  disappeared.  A  period  of  intense  anxi- 
ety followed.  One  w^eek  later  two  bodies  were  found 
.upon  the  beach  and  identified  as  those  of  Williams  and 
Shelley.  In  one  of  Shelley's  pockets  was  found  a 
volume  of  Sophocles,  in  the  other,  doubled  back  at  the 
"  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  a  volume  of  Keats's  poetry  which 
had  been  given  him  at  Leghorn  by  Hunt.  The  quar- 
antine laws  of  the  Italian  coast  made  it  necessary,  in 
the  opinion  of  friends,  to  burn  the  remains  near  the 
place  where  they  were  discovered.  This  was  done 
under  the  supervision  of  Trelawny  in  the  presence  of 
Captain  Shenley,  an  English  officer.  Hunt,  and  Byron. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 


SHELLEY  AS   A  POET 

From  whatever  point  of  view  the  reader  approaches 
the  entire  body  of  Shelley's  poetry  for  purposes  of 
study,  a  simple  classification  is  necessary.  The  series 
of  poems,  beginning  with  Queen  Mah,  an  immature 
boyish  composition,  and  ending  with  Hellas,  written 
shortly  before  his  death,  embody  the  views  of  Shelley 
the  reformer.  The  shorter  poems  disclose,  in  the  main, 
the  purely  aesthetic  qualities  of  Shelley  the  poet.  A 
brief  discussion  of  both  philosophical  and  lyrical  poems 
will  be  appropriate. 

It  has  been  recorded  that  on  August  4,  1792,  the 
day  of  Shelley's  birth,  along  the  roads  near  Field 
Place,  "the  aristocratic  emigrants  in  coaches,  in 
wagons,  in  lish-carts,"  were  pouring  from  revolutionary 
France.  The  coincidence  is  very  suggestive.  Shelley 
was  a  firm  believer  in  the  principles  of  the  French 
Revolution,  and  throughout  his  life  remained  a  stead- 
fast supporter  of  the  cause,  as  he  conceived  it,  of  lib- 
erty. In  matters  of  abstract  philosophy  and  religion 
he  changed  his  opinions,  and  in  mature  years  disowned 
with  shame  Queen  Mob,  the  completest  exposition  in 
verse  of  his  early  revolutionary  ideas.  But  in  politics 
he  treasured  to  the  last  his  vision  of  an  ideal  state, 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

where  love  would  be  the  all-sufficient  motive,  and  rea- 
son the  guide  to  action. 

His  estimate  of  the  innate  qualities  of  the  human 
mind  and  heart  was  high.  "The  prominent  feature 
of  Shelley's  theory  of  the  destiny  of  the  human 
species,"  writes  Mrs.  Shelley,  "was  that  evil  is  not 
inherent  in  the  system  of  the  creation,  but  an  accident 
that  might  be  expelled."  He  insisted  that  error  and 
ignorance  are  the  ultimate  sources  of  man's  sorrow 
and  degradation,  and  that  the  race  is  capable  of  infi- 
nite improvement.  The  chief  obstacle,  as  he  saw  it,  is 
a  system  of  government  which  permits  unscrupulous 
rulers  to  o^Dpress  and  stultify  their  subjects.  The 
representative  system  of  the  "  Republic  of  the  United 
States"  is  "sufficiently  remote  from  ideal  excellence," 
yet  "  the  most  perfect  of  practical  governments,"  and 
one  in  which  the  freedom,  happiness,  and  strength  of 
its  peoj)le  are  due  to  their  political  institutions.  Two 
conditions,  however,  demand  the  most  careful  consid- 
eration :  first,  "  the  will  of  the  people  should  be  repre- 
sented as  it  is ;  "  secondly,  "  that  will  should  be  as  wise 
and  just  as  possible."  ^  The  fundamental  conception  of 
such  ideal  excellence  was  not  original  with  Shelley. 
Many  writers  contributed  to  his  views,  Godwin  more 
than  others ;    but  the  distinct  form  and  imaginative 

1  Shelley's  "Philosophical  View  of  Reform,"  Transcripts  and 
Studies,  Dowden,  pp.  41-74. 


INT  ROD  UC  TION  XXXI 

coloring  in  which  these  bare  abstractions  are  presented 
are  81ielley's  own. 

Prometheus  Unbound  is  perhaps  the  most  adequate 
statement  of  his  hope  for  the  future,  as  it  is  certainly 
his  greatest  achievement  in  poetry.  It  is  written  in 
the  form  of  a  lyrical  drama,  a  species  of  composition 
in  which  Shelley  imitates  the  method  of  the  Greek 
tragedians.  There  is  no  attempt  at  delineation  of 
human  character,  and  the  abstract  ideas  which  the 
poem  embodies  are  more  or  less  obscure  because  of 
the  cumbrous  machinery  of  allegory.  A  Greek  myth, 
used  by  J^schylus  in  Prometheus  Bouyid,  serves  with 
alterations  for  the  general  plan  of  the  poem.  The 
friend  of  mankind  is  personified  in  the  figure  of 
Prometheus,  who  is  chained  to  a  rock  and  exposed 
to  various  evils  by  Jupiter,  the  unjust  and  tyrannous 
ruler  of  the  universe.  When  Prometheus,  defying 
his  enemy,  has  suffered  centuries  of  torture,  Demo- 
gorgon,  the  primal  power  of  the  world,  drives  Jupiter 
from  his  throne,  and  Necessity,  in  the  person  of  Her- 
cules, delivers  Prometheus  from  his  sufferings.  Asia, 
the  wife  of  Prometheus,  represents  the  spirit  of  love 
in  the  human  race.  She  is  now  restored  to  her  hus- 
band, and  their  union  marks  the  beginning  of  the 
Golden  Age. 

Shelley's  political  philosophy  did  not  escape  criti- 
cism during  his  life.     It  has  been  the  subject  of  much 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

discussion  since  his  time.  It  is  at  once  evident  that 
his  system  is  impracticable,  and  that  its  chief  defect 
springs  from  his  ignorance  of  humanity.  The  insist- 
ence that  evil  resides  wholly  in  things  external  and 
not  in  the  will  of  man  is  warranted  neither  by  history 
nor  by  the  most  casual  study  of  modern  states.  Such 
study  and  reflection  must  inevitably  force  the  conclu- 
sion that  '^  humanity  is  no  chained  Titan  of  indomi- 
table virtue,"  but  "  a  weak,  trembling  thing  which  yet, 
through  error  and  weakness,  traversed  or  overcome, 
may  at  last  grow  strong,"  ^  A  republic,  which  comes 
nearest  Shelley's  ideal,  is  precisely  so  good  from  every 
point  of  view  as  its  people.  It  is  neither  above  nor 
below  the  standard  insisted  upon  by  the  majority  of 
voters.  There  may  be  abuses  and  temporary  defeat 
of  the  popular  will,  but  in  the  end  it  is  this  that 
regidates,  or  rather  is,  the  law.  "The  progress  that 
concerns  us,"  as  has  been  well  said,  "is  that  which 
consists  in  working  out  the  beast,  and  in  gradually 
growing  to  the  fulness  of  the  stature  of  the  perfect 
man."  ^  Eeforms  that  are  far-reaching  and  permanent 
must  begin  in  work  which  refines  the  emotional  and 
intellectual  nature  of  the  average  man,  and  not  in 
abstractions  which  at  best  only  embody  his  present 
views  of  life. 

But  is  it  wise  to  estimate  the  value  of  Prometheus 

1  Life  of  Shelley,  Dowden,  Vol.  II.,  p.  264. 


IN  TROD  UCTION  XXXiii 

Unbound  in  the  light  of  its  fallacies  ?  It  certainly 
urges  a  doctrine  that  is'  ijractically  false,  but  this  is 
only  a  partial  statement  of  the  truth.  Out  of  Shelley's 
imperfect  and  distorted  views  com'e  other  things 
which  the  world  has  always  treasured.  The  political 
principles  in  which  he  believed  gained  the  sincere 
admiration  and  support  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 
in  their  earlier  days.  They,  like  Shelley,  proclaimed 
a  Golden  Age,  but,  unlike  him,  lived  long  enough  to 
forget  their  dream  and  accept  the  world  as  it  is.  No 
poet  has  conceived  more  highly  of  the  possibilities  of 
human  life  nor  remained  truer  to  his  ideal.  Himself 
of  aristocratic  family,  he  was  unwilling  to  accept 
worldly  advantages  springing  irom  his  position,  which 
would  in  his  opinion  entail  an  unjust  law  upon  future 
generations.^ 

At  the  very  heart  of  his  eager  enthusiasm  for  hu- 
manity was  an  abiding  love  of  justice,  a  love  so  strong 
that  the  dry  abstractions  and  theories  of  his  long 
philosophical  poems  become  radiant  in  its  light. 
Springing  from  this  and  hardly  less  pronounced  were 
his  intense  sympathy  for  the  oppressed,  and  his  hatred 
of  the  oppressor.  His  belief  in  the  brotherhood  of  man 
and  his  recognition  of  the  responsibility  of  the  state 
for  the  welfare  of  the  individual  are  firmly  established 

iln  the  settlement  with  his  fatlier  he  was  offered  a  great  fortune 
upon  condition  of  entailing  the  estate.     Shelley  refused. 


XXXI V  INTRODUCTION 

in  the  popular  mind,  just  as  other  tendencies  of  his 
thought,  not  so  clearly  expressed,  are  distinctly 
modern.  "  I  never  could  discern  in  him,"  writes 
Hogg,  "  more  than  two  fixed  principles.  The  first  was 
a  strong,  irrepressible  love  of  liberty  ;  .  .  .  the  second, 
an  equally  ardent  love  of  toleration  of  all  opinions; 
as  a  deduction  and  corollary  from  which  latter  prin- 
ciple, he  felt  an  intense  abhorrence  of  persecution  of 
every  kind,  public  or  private."  His  experience  at 
Eton  in  the  midst  of  schoolboy  trials  doubtless  had 
much  to  do  with  his  views,  but  one  can  hardly  escape 
the  impression  that  his  love  of  liberty  was  innate 
and  that  the  radiant  splendor  of  his  verse  is  due  to 
the  depth  and  earnestness  of  his  convictions. 


Certain  critics,  discrediting  Shelley's  political  phi- 
losophy as  vague  and  inadequate,  are  enthusiastic  in 
praise  of  the  lyrical  passages  scattered  throughout  his 
longer  poems.  Yet,  even  in  these  passages,  as  well  as 
in  nearly  all  of  his  purely  lyrical  verse,  one  may  detect 
the  author's  "  enthusiasm  for  humanity."  "  I  consider 
poetry  very  subordinate  to  moral  and  political  science," 
he  writes  to  Peacock,  "  and  if  circumstances  permitted 
I  would  aspire  to  the  latter."  It  is  doubtless  true, 
however,  that  his  most  enduring  work  is  his  short 
poems,  and  for  reasons  already  sufficiently  indicated. 


INTRODUCTION  XXXV 

Lyrical  poetry  is,  in  the  main,  the  expression  of 
personal  mood  or  feeling,  and  the  essential  qualities 
of  mind  of  a  writer  of  lyrical  poetry  are  extreme  sen- 
sitiveness, great  emotional  and  imaginative  power. 
Shelley  possessed  each  of  these  qualities  in  an  unusual 
degree.  Impressions  from  the  outside  world,  too  deli- 
cate and  evanescent  for  ordinary  perceptions,  influ- 
enced him  profoundly.  "  I  am  formed,"  he  declares^ 
"  if  for  anything  not  in  common  with  the  herd  of  man- 
kind, to  apprehend  minute  and  remote  distinctions  of 
feeling,  whether  relative  to  external  nature  or  the  liv- 
ing beings  which  surround  us."  The  accuracy  of  this 
bit  of  self-analysis  is  verified  over  and  over  again  in 
his  poetry.  A  brief  study  of  the  diction  and  phrasing 
in  the  Sensitive  Plant,  for  instance,  shows  how  fine  is 
his  sensibility.  There  are  "quivering  vapors  of  dim 
noontide,"  ^- music  delicate,  soft  and"  yet  " intense, ^^ 
"  The  tremulous  hells  of  the  Naiad  like  lily  "  and  other 
descriptions  remarkable  for  their  delicate  shades  and 
shadows.  The  ardor  with  which  he  responded  to 
these  "  minute  and  remote  distinctions  "  may  seem  at 
times  to  the  casual  reader  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
circumstances. 

It  has,  in  fact,  been  pointed  out  ^  that  to  this  impul- 
siveness is  largely  due  a  characteristic  of  Shelley's 
poetry  which  we  have  come  to  regard  as  a  fault.     The 

'^Aspects  of  Poetry,  Shairp,pp.  194-218. 


XXXvi  INTRODUCTION 

natural  world,  as  it  really  is,  has  little  place  in  his 
poetry.  He  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  landscape,  an  out- 
line of  the  mountain  peak,  or  a  momentary  gleam  of 
the  sea,  and  straightway  busies  himself  with  his  impres- 
sions. "  Nature  he  uses  mainly  to  call  from  it  some 
of  its  most  delicate  tints,  some  faint  hues  of  the  dawn 
or  the  sunset  clouds,  to  weave  in  and  color  the  web  of 
his  abstract  dream."  Many  poets  portray  nature  with 
great  faithfulness.  The  strength  and  charm  of  Words- 
worth's poetry  lie  in  this  as  much  as  in  anything  else. 
To  many  readers,  however,  Shelley's  ideal  creations  are 
as  dear  as  Wordsworth's  realistic  descriptions.  The 
two  things  are  different,  and  each,  in  its  way,  is  admir- 
able, and  the  more  delightful  for  its  opposite.  We 
need  to. remember  that  the  countless  beautiful  forms 
and  images  in  Shelley's  poetry,  the  radiant  color  in- 
vesting them,  the  spontaneity  and  freedom  of  his  lyric 
utterance,  and  the  matchless  rhythm  of  his  verse,  all 
owe  in  a  large  measure  their  exquisite  charm  to  this 
impulsiveness. 

The  true  explanation  of  his  imperfect  grasp  of  the 
objects  of  nature  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  cause  does 
not  lie  in  a  weak  sensibility,  as  might  at  first  be  in- 
ferred, but  in  the  hot  impatience  and  irritability  of 
his  temperament,  as  already  suggested,  joined  to  an 
imaginative  power  rarely  equalled  in  literature.  "  Un- 
der the  influence  of  a  sentiment  which  would  at  most 


INTRODUCTION  XXXVU 

warm  the  surface  of  other  poets'  minds  into  a  genial 
glow,  Shelley's  bubbles  up  from  its  very  depths  into 
a  sort  of  pale  passion,  and  seethes  with  imprisoned 
thought."  What  has  been  explained  by  critics  is 
corroborated  by  Shelley  in  conversation  with  Hogg. 
"  When  my  brain  gets  heated  with  thought,"  he  ob- 
served, "  it  soon  boils,  and  throws  off  images  and  words 
faster  than  I  can  skim  them  off."  Such  a  mind  is 
poorly  qualified  for  precise  delineation  of  the  actual 
facts  of  nature.  By  its  very  constitution  it  recoils 
from  long-continued  observation,  and  is  incapable  of 
holding  up  its  subject  for  narrow  inspection.  The 
emotional  and  imaginative  qualities  of  mind  must 
wait,  to  be  sure,  upon  the  receptive  powers.  The  ideal 
world  is  ultimately  dependent  upon  the  actual  world, 
but  in  Shelley's  case  the  dependence  is  often  so  remote 
that  the  reader  is  confused  amid  the  rapid  succession  of 
forms  and  images  having  so  little  in  common  with 
what  is  visible  and  tangible  about  us.  For  complete 
understanding  one  must  continually  seek  and  find  the 
poet's  point  of  view. 

The  scope  of  his  imagination  is  no  less  wonderful 
than  its  fineness.  ''  What  can  the  ordinary  person  say 
about  a  cloud?"  some  one  has  asked.  In  a  blunt  way 
the  question  forcibly  suggests  Shelley's  power.  The 
magnificent  sweep  of  his  conceptions,  when  he  has 
chosen  some  immense  element  or  force  of  nature  for 


XXXVlil  mTRODUCTION 

liis  theme,  is  in  striking  contrast  to  the  delicate  pre- 
cision and  finish  of  some  of  his  minor  lyrics.  Prome- 
theus Unbound  illustrates  this  most  adequately,  but 
one  or  two  shorter  poems  afford  excellent  examples. 
He  is  often  forced  in  such  instances  to  use  his  material 
under  the  form  of  personification  or  allegory,  and  one 
would  ex^oect  poetry  of  this  kind  to  be  cold  and  me- 
chanical. But  Shelley^s  lyrical  force  sustains  him. 
What  would  be  attenuated  and  all  but  lifeless  in 
another  poet,  is  made  to  glow  under  the  touch  of  his 
passionate  inspiration.  He  is  equally  at  home  in  mak- 
ing his  reader  realize  the  awful  grandeur  of  the  bound- 
less regions  of  space,  and  in  portraying  with  nicest 
touch  the  tremulous  tints  of  a  summer  dawn;  and  it 
is  rarely  the  case  that  any  one  of  his  poems  does  not 
show  in  some  degree  these  two  extremes  of  his  imagi- 
native range. 

Briefly,  then,  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which 
are  found  in  Shelley's  poetry  are  first  a  dominant  im- 
pulse or  passion  for  reforming  mankind.  This  wish 
or  hope  for  a  future  Golden  Age  is  the  theme,  almost 
unsupported,  of  the  greatest  of  his  poems.  The  ideas 
of  reform  given  in  Prometheus  Unbound,  are  those 
of  the  dreamer  rather  than  the  practical  statesman. 
Their  value  lies  in  the  fact  that  Shelley  is  an  optimist 
and  encourages  us  to  believe  in  and  trust  the  innate 
goodness  of  the  human  heart.     Their  falsity  lies  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

Shelley's  ignorance  of  mankind  and  in  a  meagre,  im- 
perfect knowledge  of  history.  As  a  writer  of  lyrical 
poetry  his  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  race  is  more 
or  less  evident.  Yet  the  purely  yesthetic  qualities  of 
his  mind  constitute  the  chief  value  of  his  shorter 
poems.  These  qualities  are  extreme  sensitiveness, 
great  emotional  and  imaginative  power.  Keenly 
susceptible  to  all  things  beautiful,  his  mind  was  no 
less  active  in  bodying  forth  its  figures  and  images  in 
marvellous  profusion  and  beauty. 


Xi  INTRODUCTION 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  (Shelley) 

Symonds,  Life  of  Shelley.     English  Men  of  Letters. 

Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley.     Two  volumes. 

Hogg,  T.  J.,  Life  of  Shelley.    Two  volumes. 

Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism.     Second  series. 

Bagehot,  Literary  Studies. 

Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry. 

Mason,  E.,  Personal  Traits  of  British  Authors. 

Scudder,  V.  D.,  The  Greek  Spirit  in  Shelley  and  Brownin' 

Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies.     Second  edition. 

Trelawny,  Eecollections  of  the  Last  Days  of  Shelley. 

Hutton,  Literary  Essays. 

Woodberry,  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 


LIFE   OF   KEATS 

*^The  publication  of  three  small  volumes  of  verse," 
writes  Houghton  in  his  life  of  Keats,  "  some  earnest 
friendships,  one  profound  passion,  and  a  premature 
death  .  .  .  [are]  the  only  incidents  of  his  career." 
This  statement  accurately  summarizes  this  admirable 
biography,  but  is  far  too  brief  for  those  who  would 
know  that  life  in  its  fulness. 

John  Keats  was  born  in  1795  and  died  in  1821.  His 
father,  Thomas  Keats,  born  and  bred  in  the  country, 
came  to  London  when  a  boy  and  secured  the  place 
of  head  hostler  in  a  livery  stable  owned  by  a  Mr. 
John  Jennings.  As  time  progressed,  he  married  the 
daughter  of  his  employer ;  and  later,  upon  retirement 
of  his  father-in-law  from  active  affairs,  assumed  entire 
control  of  the  business  management.  Keats's  mother, 
whose  temperament  he  inherited,  has  been  described 
as  "  a  lively,  clever,  impulsive  woman,  passionately 
fond  of  amusement."  Besides  the  poet,  the  eldest 
child,  there  were  four  children,  three  brothers  and  a 
sister.  The  youngest  son  died  in  infancy,  and  the 
father  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  1804. 
The  family,  thus  reduced  to  the  mother  and  four  chil- 
dren, continued  their  residence  at  the  old  home  for 


xlii  INTR  OB  UC  TION 

little  more  than  a  year,  Mrs.  Keats  marrying,  in  the 
meantime,  a  Mr.  RaAvlings  v/ho  had  succeeded  her 
husband  in  control  of  the  livery  stable.  The  second 
marriage  was  unhappy,  and  Mrs.  Eawlings  with  her 
children  went  to  the  home  of  her  mother,  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings, who  lived  at  Edmonton. 

Very  little  is  known  of  the  home  life  of  the  family. 
Both  father  and  mother  were  devoted  to  their  chil- 
dren, and  before  the  father  died,  John,  with  the 
brother  George,  next  to  him  in  age,  were  sent  to  the 
private  school  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clarke  at  Enfield. 
Upon  the  removal  of  the  family  to  Edmonton,  the 
residence  of  John  at  Enfield,  with  that  of  the  younger 
brother,  Tom,  was  still  continued.  The  account  given 
in  later  years  by  his  schoolmates  there  is  the  chief 
source  of  information  concerning  Keats,  and  indirectly 
concerning  his  family. 

He  passed  five  years  (1805-1810)  of  his  boyhood  in 
the  school  at  Enfield.  At  first  he  showed  little  apti- 
tude for  his  books,  but  during  the  last  terms,  in  his 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth  years,  he  became  unusually 
studious  and  easily  took  the  prizes  offered  by  the 
school  for  excellence  in  literature.  In  addition  to 
the  regular  course  he  began  a  translation  of  the 
u^7ieid  into  prose,  and  read  books  of  history  and 
Ancient  mythology.  "In  my  mind's  eye,"  writes 
Cowden  Clarke,  son  of  the  principal  of  the  school 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

and  one  of  Keats's  warmest  friends,  "I  see  him  at 
supper,  sitting  back  on  the  form  from  the  table,  hold- 
ing the  folio  volume  of  Burnefs  History  of  My  Own 
Time  between  himself  and  the  table,  eating  his  meal 
from  beyond  it." 

His  schoolboy  friends  seem  to  have  been  chosen  on 
the  score  of  their  courage  and  fighting  propensities. 
"He  himself  would  fight  any  one  —  morning,  noon, 
and  night,"  writes  a  classmate ;  and  another  observes 
that  he  had  "  a  highly  pugnacious  spirit,  which,  when 
roused,  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  exhibitions 
—  off  the  stage  —  I  ever  saw."  With  the  same  una- 
nimity it  is  recorded  that  he  was  the  favorite  of  all. 
The  generosity  and  highmindedness  of  his  character 
were  no  less  evident  than  his  pugnacity,  and  espe- 
cially fine  was  the  zealous  care  with  which  he  pro- 
tected his  younger  brother. 

Keats's  boyhood  was  full  of  happiness,  but  in  the 
midst  of  his  pleasures  came  misfortune.  His  mother, 
who  had  been  in  poor  health  for  some  time,  declined 
rapidly  and  suddenly  died.  The  family  were  bound 
together  by  ties  of  natural  affection  unusually  strong, 
and  Keats  was  inconsolable  in  his  sorrow,  giving 
"  way  to  such  impassioned  and  prolonged  grief  (hiding 
himself  in  a  nook  under  the  master's  desk),  as  awak- 
ened the  liveliest  pity  and  sympathy  in  all  who  saw 
him."     Six  months  later,  July,  1810,  his  grandmother 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

executed  a  deed  leaving  the  larger  part  of  her  property 
to  the  orphan  children  and  placing  them  under  the 
care  of  two  guardians. 

One  of  these,  Mr.  Abbey,  with  the  consent  of  his 
associate,  assumed  control  of  the  children  upon  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Jennings  a  few  months  later.  It  was 
decided  that  Keats  should  fit  himself  for  the  practical 
business  of  life.  He  was  accordingly  withdrawn  from 
school  and  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  for  a  term  of  five 
years.  Little  is  known  of  his  work  as  an  apprentice, 
but  the  friendships  formed  during  the  years  at  school 
were  not  forgotten.  Once  a  week  he  walked  to  Enfield 
to  read  and  talk  with  Cowden  Clarke.  He  finished 
his  translation  of  the  ^neid  during  this  time,  and 
became  deeply  interested  in  the  poetry  of  Spenser. 
The  Faerie  Qiieene,  in  particular,  fascinated  him. 
"  Through  the  new  world  thus  opened  to  him  [he] 
went  ranging  with  delight  —  'ramping'  is  Cowden 
Clarke's  word ;  he  showed,  moreover,  his  own  instincts 
for  the  poetical  art  by  fastening  with  critical  enthu- 
siasm on  epithets  of  special  felicity  or  power.  'For 
instance,'  says  his  friend,  '  he  hoisted  himself  up  and 
looking  burly  and  dominant,  as  he  said,  "What  an 
image  that  is  —  sea-shouldering  whales."  ' "  It  is  doubt- 
less true  that  the  Faerie  Queene  first  stimulated  Keats 
into  a  consciousness  of  his  own  poetical  genius.  The 
Imitation  of  Sxnnser  is,  probably,  his  earliest  poetry ; 


tNTRODUCTIOK  xlv 

but  inspired  by  his  master  and  encouraged  by  the 
sympathy  of  his  friend  Clarke,  he  continued  to  write 
occasional  sonnets  and  other  verse. 

In  the  meantime  his  work  as  apprentice  was  grow- 
ing extremely  distasteful.  There  is  no  direct  evidence 
of  a  quarrel  with  Hammond  or  of  neglect  of  duty,  yet 
it  is  probable  that  the  drudgery  of  a  surgeon  appren- 
ticeship and  his  growing  love  of  poetry  were  incom- 
patible. He  did  not  as  jQi,  however,  give  up  his 
profession,  but  decided  to  continue  his  studies  in  Lon- 
don. He  spent  a  year  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital,  suc- 
cessfully passed  his  examinations,  and  Avas  appointed, 
March,  1816,  a  dresser  at  Guy's  Hospital.  He  had 
become  skilful  and  dexterous  in  surgical  operations, 
and  declared  to  Brown,  his  personal  friend,  that  he 
could  use  the  scalpel  "  with  the  utmost  nicety."  But 
it  is  quite  evident  that  his  tasks  were  perfunctory. 
"  Sketches  of  pansies  and  other  flowers  "  occasionally 
"  decorated  the  margin  of  his  manuscript  note-book." 
When  questioned  by  Clarke  about  his  studies  he 
observed,  "  The  other  day,  for  instance,  during  the 
lecture,  there  came  a  sunbeam  into  the  room,  and 
with  it  a  whole  troop  of  creatures  floating  in  the  ray, 
and  I  was  off  with  them  to  Oberon  and  fairy -land." 
He  did  his  work  regularly  at  the  hospitals,  but  his 
inclinations  were  otherwise  and  he  gradually  yielded 
to  them. 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION 

Clarke,  who  had  settled  in  London,  introduced  him 
to  Leigh  Hunt.  Through  the  Examiner,  Hunt's  maga- 
zine, he  had  come  to  know  the  author  while  yet  a 
schoolboy  at  Enfield,  and  had  learned  to  admire  him. 
They  were  soon  warm  friends  and  in  time  became 
very  intimate.  Hunt,  shallow,  graceful,  and  with  a 
disposition  of  sunshine,  was  immeasurably  beneath 
Keats  in  native  endowment,  yet  he  exercised  for  a 
time  a  controlling  and  moulding  influence  upon  him. 
They  passed  much  time  together  and  had  many  tastes 
in  common.  Other  acquaintances  were  Shelley,  to 
whom  Keats  did  not  take  very  kindly,  Hayden  the 
artist,  and  Severn,  who  a  few  years  later  was  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Italy. 

In  1817,  at  the  suggestion  of  friends,  he  published 
his  first  volume  of  poems.  Though  containing  0  Soli- 
tude, Sleep  and  Poetry,  and  other  unmistakable  evi- 
dences of  high  poetic  facuHy,  the  book  made  very 
little  impression  upon  the  public.  Hunt  wrote  a 
friendly  though  discriminating  criticism  in  the  Exam- 
iner, and  through  his  influence  the  volume  received 
notice  in  several  papers.  A  few  chosen  friends  were 
enthusiastic  and  encouraged  Keats  to  continue  writ- 
ing. Yielding  to  their  advice,  he  made  an  excursion 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight  in  order  to  have  the  benefit  of 
seclusion  and  rest,  which  he  felt  he  needed  before 
beginning  new  work. 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

His  circle  of  friends  was  growing  larger.  He  met 
Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth.  Hazlitt 
was  delivering  a  se];ies  of  lectures  on  literature  at 
Surrey  Institute,  and  he  and  Keats  became  good  friends, 
though  Hazlitt  does  not  seem  to  have' recognized  fully 
Keats's  greatness.  Mention  is  made  of  ''  an  immortal 
dinner  "  given  by  Hay  den,  where  Wordsworth  quoted 
Milton  and  Virgil  "  with  fine  intonation "  and  Lamb 
perpetrated  absurd  jokes.  Later  Wordsworth  invited 
Keats  to  his  home.  Keats  recited  the  Hymn  to  Pan 
(Endymion)  and  W^ordsworth  patronizingly  observed 
that  it  was  "  a  pretty  piece  of  Paganism." 

Endymion,  begun  a  year  before,  was  published  early 
in  1818.  Immediately  thereafter,  in  company  with  a 
friend,  Keats  started  on  a  walking  tour  through 
northern  England.  They  visited  the  lake  region,  but 
missed  seeing  Wordsworth,  who  happened  to  be  away 
from  home.  Keats  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  at 
first  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  rugged  scenery  and  the 
novelty  of  his  daily  experiences  with  the  "country 
people.  But  before  his  tour  was  half  finished  he 
began  to  suffer  from  exposure.  Several  times  he  was 
drenched  to  the  skin,  and  climbing  mountains  was  too 
much  for  him.  In  a  letter  he  complains  of  "  a  slight 
sore  throat,"  and  adds  that  he  has  over-exerted  him- 
self. He  became  feverish,  and  finally  decided,  upon 
the  advice  of  a  physician  whom  he  consulted,  to  return 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION 

to  London  by  boat,  leaving  liis  friend  to  complete  the 
tour  alone.  From  this  time  on  Keats's  health  steadily- 
declined.  His  inherent  tendency  to  consumption  was 
undoubtedly  strengthened  by  his  indiscretion  and 
thoughtlessness.- 

Immediately  upon  his  return  to  London  there  ap- 
peared a  brutal  criticism  of  Endymion  in  the  peri- 
odical, Blackicood.  Later  the  Quarterly  contained 
an  article  hardly  less  savage.  Keats  was  too  fully 
conscious  of  his  own  integrity  and  of  the  meanness  of 
motive  behind  these  criticisms  to  be  seriously  affected 
by  them.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend  he  observes,  "  When 
I  feel  I  am  right,  no  external  praise  can  give  me  such 
a  glow  as  my  own  solitary  re-perception  and  ratifica- 
tion of  what  is  fine."  It  is  not  probable,  as  once 
was  thought,  that  the  criticisms  of  these  periodicals 
hastened  in  any  large  measure  his  death. 

The  remaining  incidents  of  Keats's  life  need  not  be 
recited  in  detail.  His  best  poetry  —  the  six  odes  — 
was  yet  to  be  written,  but  misfortunes  of  one  sort  or 
another  made  his  last  days  wretched.  His  invalid 
brother,  Tom,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached, 
after  a  lingering  illness  died.  George,  the  companion 
brother  of  his  boyhood  days,  had  emigrated  to  the 
United  States,  and  Keats  himself,  in  addition  to  his 
declining  health,  was  in  financial  straits  that  pressed 
him  greatly.  He  attempted  to  find  work  on  the  press 
in  London,  but  failed. 


INTRODUGTIOM  xlix 

In  the  midst  of  these  disappointments  lie  became 
despondent  and  careless  of  his  health.  Eresh  expos- 
ure resulted  in  renewed  hemorrhages,  and  in  company 
with  his  friend  Severn  he  took  passage  for  Italy  in 
September,  1820.  Shelley,  immediately  upon  hearing 
of  Keats's  sickness,  had  written  from  Pisa  urging  him 
to  make  his  home  there.  But  Severn  and  Keats  had 
both  decided  upon  Eome  and  it  was  too  late  to  alter 
plans.  The  voyage  and  the  climate  of  Italy  proved 
beneficial  and  for  a  time  Keats  rallied.  Severn  enter- 
tained strong  hopes  of  his  recovery,  but  the  improve- 
ment was  deceptive.  A  second  relapse  was  followed 
by  his  death,  on  February  23,  1821.  "Three  days 
later  his  body  was  carried,  attended  by  several  of  the 
English  in  Eome  who  had  heard  his  story,  to  its  grave 
in  that  retired  and  verdant  cemetery,  which  for  his 
sake  and  Shelley's  has  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage 
to  the  Ensrlish  race  forever." 


INTRODUCTION 


KEATS   AS   A  POET 


We  usually  think  of  Keats  as  one  of  the  chief  poets 
of  the  "Romantic  School."  In  the  history  of  the 
development  of  English  literature  he  is  given  a  place 
with  AVorclsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Byron.  It 
is  well,  however,  when  possible,  to  indicate  more  pre- 
cisely a  poet's  relations  to  his  contemporaries. 

Wordsworth  complained  that  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions not  a  single  new  image  of  external  nature  had 
been  given  from  the  publication  of  Paradise  Lost  to 
the  Seasons  —  a  period  of  sixty  years.  Of  course 
Wordsworth's  statement  is  too  sweeping;  yet  the 
exaggeration  may  be  pardoned  when  we  consider  the 
extent  to  which  the  English  poets  were  hampered  by 
literary  precedent  at  the  beginning  of  this  century. 
Ideals  of  any  sort  which  have  come  gradually  and 
have  fastened  themselves  firmly  in  the  public  mind 
cannot  be  attacked  with  impunity.  The  criticism 
directed  against  W^ordsworth  was  hardly  less  than 
downright  insult.  The  principles  of  poetic  composi- 
tion which  he  was  at  pains  to  state  very  minutely  in 
the  prefaces  to  his  poems  were  received  with  scorn, 
and  he  himself  was  the  subject  of  ridicule  not  unmixed 
with  contempt.     Hazlitt  declares  that  "  if  Byron  was 


INTRODUCTION  ll 

the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  Wordsworth  was  the 
s^joiled  child  of  disax-)pointment."  After  his  thirtieth 
year  Wordsworth  wrote  very  little  genuine  poetry, 
and  Coleridge's  best  work  appeared  in  the  Lyrical 
Ballads.  Wordsworth  stubbornly  upheld  his  theories 
to  the  end  of  his  long  life,  and  Coleridge  lost  himself 
in  the  mazes  of  philosophy  and  metaphysics. 

There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  they  sowed  the 
seeds  of  a  revolution  whose  results  have  been  alto- 
gether beneficial.  Their  sympathies  were  with  the 
great  Elizabethans,  and  the  tendency  of  much  in 
their  theories  of  poetry  and  in  their  practice  points 
to  the  Age  of  Shakespeare  as  the  only  literary  period 
worthy  of  serious  attention.  Keats  has  been  called 
^' alike  by  gifts  and  training  a  true  child  of  the 
Elizabethans."  A  close  study  of  his  poetry  makes 
the  truth  of  the  statement  evident.  Eesponding  to 
the  influences  of  his  time,  he  looked  beyond  his  own 
age  and  the  one  preceding  for  his  ideals,  and  found 
them  in  Milton,  Spenser,  and  Shakespeare. 

Coming  directly  to  a  consideration  of  the  qualities 
of  his  style,  we  are  at  once  impressed  with  his  extraor- 
dinary susceptibility  to  the  beauty  of  the  natural 
world.  A  friend  observes  that  "  He  was  in  his  glory 
in  the  fields.  The  humming  of  a  bee,  the  sight  of  a 
fiuwer,  the  glitter  of  the  sun,  seemed  to  make  his 
nature    tremble  5    then    his    eyes   flashed,    his    cheek 


Hi  tNTttODUCTION 

glowed,  and  his  moutli  quivered."  He  is  at  home 
with  his  sensations,  and  his  sympathy  with  nature 
is  not  of  the  intellectual  or  reflective  kind.  He 
does  not  'seek  to  harmonize  his  love  of  nature  with 
any  system  of  philosophy,  but  rather  to  know  and 
enjoy  without  restraint  the  beauty  of  her  forms. 
This  freedom  from  conventions  is  a  partial  expla- 
nation of  the  utter  simplicity  and  exquisite  freshness 
of  his  verse.  Face  to  face  with  natural  phenomena 
he  was  untrammelled  by  prejudices.  No  theory  chilled 
his  innocent  delight  nor  retarded  a  complete  devotion 
to  the  charm  of  sensuous  beauty.  It  was  his  instinct 
to  respond  quickly  and  eagerly  to  all  appeals  to  the 
eye  and  ear,  and  to  realize  for  his  reader  the  perfect 
beauty  of  the  woods  and  fields. 

Though  primarily  a  poet  of  the  senses,  he  is  not 
deficient  in  imaginative  power.  His  arraignment  of 
eighteenth  century  writers,  who 

"...  were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile, 

indicates  his  feeling  for  the  school  of  Pope,  and  his 
statement  that  "  poetry  should  surprise  by  a  fine  ex- 
cess "  suggests  at  once  the  imaginative  qualities  of  his 
own  verse.  Not  so  daring  as  Shelley  nor  so  faithful 
as  Wordsworth,  he  excels  both  in  the  gorgeous  color 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

of  his  imagery.  If  he  sins,  as  some  would  have  it,  it 
is  on  the  side  of  over-decoration,  yet  the  ease  and  al> 
sence  of  all  effort  with  which  he  works  go  far  toward 
disarming  criticism.  In  bringing  home  to  one  a  vivid 
picture  of  natural  scenery  or  of  any  beautiful  object, 
he  is  unique  among  poets.  The  force  of  his  descrip- 
tions lies  in  this,  more  perhaps  than  in  anything  else. 
His  experience  becomes  our  experience,  and  we  seem 
to  be  in  the  actual  presence  of  the  objects  portrayed. 

No  analysis,  of  course,  will  disclose  the  ultimate  se- 
cret of  this,  any  more  than  it  will  the  subtle  charm  of 
any  genuine  work  of  art.  Yet  the  remarkable  vivid- 
ness of  his  imagery  is  surely  heightened  by  the  action 
and  movement  which  are  rarely  absent  from  his  de- 
scriptions, and  by  his  perfect  feeling  for  word  and 
phrase.  "  I  have  loved  the  principle  of  beauty  in  all 
things,"  he  writes,  and  this .  extends  to  the  vehicle  as 
well  as  the  substance  of  his  thought.  It  is  this  rare 
sensitiveness  to  the  power  of  words  that  calls  forth 
INIatthew  Arnold's  well-known  eulogy,  "  Shakespearian 
work  it  is ;  not  imitative,  indeed,  of  Shakespeare, 
but  Shakespearian,  because  its  expression  has  that 
rounded  perfection  and  felicity  of  loveliness  of  which 
Shakespeare  is  the  great  master." 

Keats  died  before  he  was  twenty-six  years  old,  and 
nearly  all  the  poems  by  which  he  is  most  favorably 
known   were   produced  in   rapid   succession   during  a 


liv  INTRODUCTION 

period  of  twenty  months.  Tliis  is  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion of  mucli  that  is  crude  in  his  work.  The  wonder 
is  that  under  the  circumstances,  he  produced  so  much 
that  is  without  a  flaw.  His  errors  are  those  of  youth 
and  immaturity.  "  Would  the  faculties  that  were  so 
swift  to  reveal  the  hidden  delights  of  nature,  to  divine 
the  true  spirit  of  antiquity,  to  conjure  with  the  spell 
of  the  Middle  Age  —  would  they  with  time  have 
gained  equal  power  to  unlock  the  mysteries  of  the 
heart,  and  still,  in  obedience  to  the  law  of  beauty,  to 
illuminate  and  harmonize  the  great  struggles  and  prob- 
lems of  human  life?"  There  is  good  reason  for  be- 
lieving so,  yet,  taking  his  poetry  as  it  is,  one  must 
admit  that  he  does  not  explore  the  heights  and  depths 
of  human  experience.  In  a  perfectly  innocent  youth- 
ful way  he  revels  in  the  beauties  of  the  natural  world, 
pointing  the  way  for  others,  less  gifted,  to  a  love  of 
nature  not  less  complete  and  genuine  than  his  own. 


INTRODUCTION  Iv 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  (Keats) 

Sidney  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats.     English  Men  of  Letters. 
Sidney  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats,     Dictionary  of  National  Biogra- 
phy. 
W.  M.  Rossetti,  Life  of  Keats.     Great  Writers. 
Dawson,  W.  J. ,  The  Makers  of  Modern  English. 
Masson,  D.,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  other  essays. 
Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism.     Second  series.* 
Woodberry,  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life. 


POEMS   FROM    SHELLEY 


TO   A   SKYLAKK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  lire  ;° 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And    singing    still   dost    soar,   and    soaring    ever 
singest.  lo 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied°  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 
»  1 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  stai  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy   shrill  de- 
light.        '  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  —  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and    heaven  is 
overflowed.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 


TO  A  SKYLARK  6 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ;  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With   music   sweet   as   love,   which   overflows   her 
bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view :  50 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes   faint   with   too    much .  sweet  these   heavy- 
winged  thieves : 


4  TO  A   SKYLARK 

Souud  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Eain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was  59 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass : 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  ra^^ture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want.  70 

What  object  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What   love  of  thine  own   kind?   what  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 


TO  A   SKYLARK  5 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest :  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety.  So 

AVaking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or    how   could    thy   notes    flow    in    such    a  crystal 
stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our   sweetest   songs   are   those   that   tell  of   saddest 
thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


6  TO  A   SKYLARK 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground!  loo 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The   world   should    listen    then,   as   I   am   listening 
now. 

THE   CLOUD 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  lo 


THE   CLOUD  7 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 


8  THE  CLOUD 

Wh,en  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  lit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And   when   sunset    may   breathe,   from    the    lit   sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depths  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
°And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 


THE   CLOUD  9 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;  60 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-colored  bow ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And   the   winds   and    sunbeams   with    their    convex 
gleams. 


10  THE  CLOUD 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


ODE   TO   THE   WEST   WIND 


0  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  0  thou. 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill  j 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill  : 


ODE   TO    THE    WEST   WIJVD  11 

Wild  Spirit,  wliicli  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  0  hear  ! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning :  there  are  spread 

(_)n  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 

Like  the  bright  hair  unlifted  from  the  head  20 

Of  some  fierce  °Ma3nad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

lUack  rain,  and  iire,  and  hail  will  burst ;  0  hear  ! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,*  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 


12  ODE   TO   THE   WEST   WIND 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  °grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves ;  0  hear  ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fl}^  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  0  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 


The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision :  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 


50 


ODE    TO    THE    WEST    WIND  13 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  lias  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


]\Iake  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

AVill  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone,  60 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  w^ords  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     0  wind. 

If  ^Vinter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ?  70 


14  WITH  A   GUITAR,    TO  JANE 

WITH   A  GUITAE,   TO  JANE 

Ariel  to  "Miranda.  —  Take 

The  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain ; 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who. 

From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness ;  —  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before. 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 


WITH  A   GUITAR,    TO  JANE  15 

In  her  interliinar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity.  30 

IMany  changes  have  been  run. 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  tracked  your  steps,  and  served  your  will ; 

Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remembered  not ; 

And  now,  alas !  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his, 

In  a  body  like  a  grave ;  — 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave,  40 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 

A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought. 
Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Kocked  in  that  repose  divine 


16  WITH  A   GUITAR,    TO  JANE 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast,  50 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers. 

And  all  of  love ;  and  so  this  tree,  — 

0  that  such  our  death  may  be !  — 

Died  in  sleep  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 

To  all  who  question  skilfully,  60 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own ; 

Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies. 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains. 

And  the  many-voiced  fountains  ; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills,  70 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees. 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 


LIFT  NOT  THE  PAIXTED    VEIL  17 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 

And  airs  of  evening ;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day. 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  — 

^11  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well  So 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day : 

But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 

For  our  beloved  Jane  alone.  90 

SONNET 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live 
Call  Life :    though  unreal  shapes  be  pictured  there, 
And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colors  idly  spread,  —  behind,  lurk  Fear 
c 


18  ENGLAND  IN  1819 

And  Hope,  twin  destinies  ;  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless  and  drear. 
I  knew  one  who  had  lifted  it  —  he  sought. 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to  love. 
But  found  them  not,  alas !  nor  was  there  aught 
The  world  contains,  the  which  he  could  approve.     lo 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendor  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and  like  the  Preacher  found  it  not. 

SONNET:    ENGLAND   IN   1819 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king,  — 
Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who  flow 
Through  public  scorn,  —  mud  from  a  muddy  spring,  — 
K-ulers  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  know. 
But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country  cling. 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a  blow,  — 
A  people  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  untilled  field,  — 
An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who  wield 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and  slay  ;      lo 
Eeligion  Christless,  Godless —  a  book  sealed  ; 
A  Senate,  —  Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed,  — 


MEN  OF  ENGLAND  19 

Are  graves,  from  which  a  ghn-ious  Phantom  may 
Burst,  to  ilhimine  our  tempestuous  day. 


SONG   TO   THE   MEN   OF   ENGLAND 


Men.  of  England,  Avherefore  plough 
For  the  lords  who  lay  ye  low  ? 
Wherefore  weave  with  toil  and  care 
The  rich  robes  your  tyrants  wear  ? 


II 

Wherefore  feed,  and  clothe,  and  save, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Those  ungrateful  drones  who  would 
Drain  your  sweat  —  nay,  drink  your  blood  ? 


Ill 

Wherefore,  Bees  of  England,  forge 
Many  a  weapon,  chain,  and  scourge. 
That  these  stingless  drones  may  spoil 
The  forced  produce  of  your  toil  ? 


20  MEN  OF  ENGLAND 


IV 


Have  ye  leisure,  comfort,  calm, 
Shelter,  food,  love's  gentle  balm  ? 
Or  what  is  it  ye  buy  so  dear 
With  your  pain  and  with  your  fear  ? 


The  seed  ye  sow,  another  reaps  ; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps ; 
The  robes  you  weave,  another  wears ; 
The  arms  ye  forge,  another  bears, 

VI 

Sow  seed,  — but  let  no  tyrant  reap ; 
Eind  wealth,  —  let  no  impostor  heap  ; 
Weave  robes,  —  let  not  the  idle  wear ; 
Forge  arms,  —  in  your  defence  to  bear. 

VII 

Shrink  to  your  cellars,  holes,  and  cells ; 
In  halls  ye  deck  another  dwells. 
Why  shake  the  chains  ye  wrought  ?    Ye  see 
The  steel  ye  tempered  glance  on  ye. 


The  sensitive  plant  21 

VIII 

With  plough  and  spade,  and  hoe  and  loom, 
Trace  your  grave,  and  build  your  tomb,  2° 

And  weave  your  winding-sheet,  till  fair 
England  be  your  sepulchre. 


THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT 

Part   First 

A  Sexstttve  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair. 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere ; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

I>ut  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness,  i 

Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 


22  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall. 

And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 

Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ;  20 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple  and  white  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  x^eal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addressed. 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast,       3c 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare  : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up. 
As  a  Ma3nad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  23 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 

The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows  ; 

And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime, 

Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime.  40 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  pranked  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue. 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by. 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  [dong  and  across,         50 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze. 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  "asphodels. 
And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 
To  °roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 


24  ,      THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

And  from  this  imdefiled  Paradise 

The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 

Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet  60 

Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed. 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear 
W^rapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere.        6g 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Eeceived  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver ; 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower  ; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full. 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings  ; 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  25 

The  beams  whicli  dart  from  many  a  star  80 

Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  goklen  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  Are  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears ; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide,  90 

Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound,  and  odor,  and  beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love. 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep  too 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep. 


26  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 

drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest  no 

Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite. 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 

Part  Second 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden  ;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers  did  they  waken  or  dream. 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind. 

Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind  120 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  27 

Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  lier  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven. 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earth ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise:   130 

As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 

Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  pressed ; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast. 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 

Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod  140 

Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 

Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 


28  THE  SENSITIVE   PLANT 

I  doubt  not  the  flowerS  of  that  garden  sweet 
Eejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
Eroni  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 

On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam ; 

And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 

She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder  showers.  150 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull  160 

For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beam-like  ephemeris 

Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that  kiss 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  29 

The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 

Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 

She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 

Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark.  170 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown  —  she  died ! 

Part  Third 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair. 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  °Baiie,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 

Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant,  180 

And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow. 

And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and  low ; 

The  wear}^  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 


30  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan.       190 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul. 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul. 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep. 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed^ 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode. 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow,  200 

Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan. 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  31 

Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day, 

Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  ancl  gray,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  passed ;  210 

Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds. 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds. 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem. 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set  5 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there. 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks,     220 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks ; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin ;  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow. 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 


32  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank,  230 

And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth. 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated! 

Their  moss  rotted  off  them  flake  by  flake,  240 

Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murderer's  stake, 
Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on  high. 
Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by. 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum. 

Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb, 

And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 

Dammed  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  water-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still. 
The  vapors  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill : 


TUB  SENSITIVE  PLANT  33 

A.t  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  tliey  were  felt,       250 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  m  broad  noonday 
Unseen ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
JJy  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant  like  one  forbid 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon         260 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  winter  came  :  the  wind  was  his  whip : 
One  choppy  linger  Avas  on  his  lip  : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles  ^ 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot-throne  270 

By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  Arctic  zone. 


34  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want; 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain  280 

And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again, 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew ; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out. 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy  and  stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck ; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and 

darnS'ls,  290 

Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  35 


Conclusion 


Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Whicli  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life  300 

Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife. 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem. 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream. 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 

And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odor  there, 

In  truth  have  never  past  away :  310 

'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  5  not  they. 


36  TO    WORDSWORTH 

For  love  and  beauty  and  delight, 

There  is  no  death  nor  change  :  their  might 

Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 

ISTo  light,  .being  themselves  obscure. 


TO   WOEDSWORTH 

Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wej^t  to  know 
That  things  depart  which  never  may  return : 
"Childhood  and  youth,  friendship  and  love's  first  glow, 
Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine 
Which  thou  too  feePst,  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
°Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar : 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude  :  lo 

In  honored  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty,  — 
"Deserting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve. 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 


TO  COLERIDGE  37 

TO   COLERIDGE 

AAKPT2I  AlOISfi  nOTMOX  AHOTMON  • 

Oh  !   there  are  ^spirits  of  the  air, 

And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 

And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 

As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees  :  — 

Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 

Oft  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely  feet. 

With  ^mountain  winds,  and  babbling  springs, 

And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 

Of  these  inexplicable  things 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice  lo 

When  they  did  answer  thee ;   but  they 

Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 
Beams  that  were  never  meant  for  thine, 
Another's  wealth :  —  tame  sacrifice 
To  a  fond  faith  !    still  dost  thou  pine  ? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 
Voice,  looks,  or  lips,  may  answer  thy  demands? 


38     ,  TO   COLERIDGE 

» 
Ah !  wherefore  didst  thou  build  thine  hope 

On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ?  20 

Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 

Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 

Whose  falsehood  left  thee  broken-hearted ; 

°The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead ; 

Night^s  ghosts  and  dreams  have  now  departed ; 

Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee. 

But  changed  to  a  °foul  fiend  through  misery.  30 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever ' 
Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs. 
Dream  not  to  chase  ;  —  the  mad  endeavor 
Would  scourge  the,e  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate. 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 

MONT   BLANC 

LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    VALE    OF    CHAMOUNI 
I 

The  everlasting  universe  of  things 

Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid  waves, 


MONT  BLANC  39 

Now  dark  —  now  glittering  — now  reflecting  gloom  — 

Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret  springs 

The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute  brings 

Of  waters,  —  with  a  sound  but  half  its  own, 

Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 

In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains  lone, 

Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  forever, 

Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a  vast  river      lo 

Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 


II 

Thus  thou,  Eavine  of  Arve  —  dark,  deep  Ravine  — 
Thou  many-colored,  many-voiced  vale. 
Over  whose  pines,  and  crags,  and  caverns  sail 
Fast  cloud-shadows  and  sunbeams  :    awful  scene. 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve  comes  down 
From  the  ice  gulfs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 
Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains  like  the  flame 
Of  lightning  through  the  tempest ;  —  thou  dost  lie, 
Thy  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee  clinging,  20 

Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 
The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever  came 
To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty  swinging 
To  hear  —  an  old  and  solemn  harmony  ; 


40  MONT  BLANC 

Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across  the  sweep 

Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 

Robes  some  unsculptured  image  ;  the  strange  sleep 

Which  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail 

Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity;  — 

Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  commotion,  30 

A  loud,  lone  sound  no  other  sound  can  tame ; 

Thou  art  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  motion. 

Thou  art  the  path  of  that  unresting  sound  — 

Dizzy  Ravine !   and  when  I  gaze  on  thee 

I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 

To  muse  on  my  own  separate  fantasy, 

My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  passively 

Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influencings. 

Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 

With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around ;  40 

One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wandering  wings 

Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now  rest 

Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden  guest, 

In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 

Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by 

Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade  of  thee. 

Some  phantom,  some  faint  image ;  till  the  breast 

From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou  art  there ! 


MONT  BLANC  41 


III 

Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 

Visit  the  soul  in  sleep,  —  that  death  is  slumber,  50 

And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  outnumber 

Of  those  who  wake  and  live.  —  I  look  on  high; 

Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurled 

The  veil  of  life  or  death  ?  or  do  I  lie 

In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of  sleep 

Spread  far  around  and  inaccessibly 

Its  circles  ?     For  the  very  spirit  fails, 

Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to  steep 

That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales  ! 

Far,  °far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky,  60 

Mont  Blanc  appears,  —  still,  snowy,  and  serene  — 

Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 

Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock;  broad  vales  between 

Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 

Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 

And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps; 

A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 

Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's  bone, 

And  the  wolf  tracks  her  there  —  how  hideously 

Its  shapes  are  heaped  around  !  rude,  bare,  and  high,  70 

Ghastlv.  and  scarred,  and  riven.  —  Is  this  the  scene 


42  MONT  BLANC 

Where  the  old  Earthquake-daemon  taught  her  young 

Euin  ?     Were  these  their  toys  ?  or  did  a  sea 

Of  fire  envelop  once  this  silent  snow  ? 

None  can  reply  —  all  seems  eternal  now. 

The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 

Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 

So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 

But  for  such  faith  with  Nature  reconciled ; 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  °great  Mountain,  to  repeal  80 

Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe;  not  understood 

By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  great,  and  good 

Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 

IV 

The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the  streams, 

Ocean,  and  all  the  living  things  that  dwell 

Within  the  dsedal  earth ;  lightning  and  rain. 

Earthquake,  and  fiery  flood,  and  hurricane. 

The  torpor  of  the  year  when  feeble  dreams 

Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 

Holds  every  future  leaf  and  flower ;  —  the  bound        90 

With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they  leap ; 

The  works  and  ways  of  man,  their  death  and  birth, 

And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be ; 

All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil  and  sound 


MONT  BLANC  43 

Are  born  and  die;  revolve,  subside,  and  swell.. 
°Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity 
Eemote,  serene,  and  inaccessible: 

And  this,  the  naked  countenance  of  earth, 
On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primeval  mountains 
Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers  creep  loo 

Like    snakes   that   watch   their   prey,  from  their  far 

fountains, 
Slow  rolling  on ;  there,  many  a  precipice. 
Frost  and  the  Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 
Have  piled :  dome,  pyramid,  and  pinnacle, 
A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a  tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the  sky 
Eolls  its  perpetual  stream ;  vast  pines  are  strewing 
Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil  no 

Branchless   and   shattered   stand;    the   rocks,    drawn 

down 
From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 
The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world. 
Never  to  be  reclaimed.     The  dwelling-place 
Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds,  becomes  its  spoil ; 
Their  food  and  their  retreat  forever  gone. 
So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.     The  race 


44  MONT  BLANC 

Of  man  flies  far  in  dread ;  his  work  and  dwelling 
Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's  stream, 
And  their  place  is  not  known.     Below,  vast  caves 
Shine  in  the  rushing  torrents'  restless  gleam. 
Which  from  those  secret  chasms  a  tumult  welling 
Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 
The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands,  forever     , 
Eolls  its  loud  Avaters  to  the  ocean  waves. 
Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circling  air. 


Mont  Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high :  — the  power  is 

there. 
The  still  and  °solemn  power  of  many  sights, 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and  death. 
In  the  calm  darkness  of  the  moonless  nights,  130 

In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
Upon  that  Mountain;  none  beholds  them  there, 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  sun. 
Or  the  star-beams  dart  through  them  :  — Winds  contend 
Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow  with  breath 
Eapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !     Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 
Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of  things 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY  45 

Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite  dome      140 
Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee ! 
And  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  and  stars,  and  sea, 
If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  ? 
July  23,  1816. 


HYMN   TO   INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY 


The  awful  shadow  of  some  °unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  amongst  us,  —  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower,  — 
Like  moonbeams   that   behind   some   piny  mountain 
shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening,  — 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread,  — 
Like  meinor}^  of  music  fled,  —  10 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 


46  HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 

II 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 

Of  human  thought  or  form,  —  where  art  thou  gone  ? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state. 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river, 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown,  20 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth  ^ 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  — w\\j  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

Ill 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  — 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor, 
Frail  sx^ells  —  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to 
sever. 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see,  30 

Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone  —  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 


HYMN  TO  IXTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY  47 

Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

IV 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent, 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art,  40 

Keep  with   thy  glorious   train  firm    state  within  his 
heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies. 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  — 
Thou  —  that  to  human  tliought  art  nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not  —  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 


While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin,  50 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 

Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 


48  HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 

I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is 
fed; 

I  was  not  heard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming,  — 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me  ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy !  60 

VI 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine  —  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :  they  have  in  visioned 
bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night  — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery,  70 

That  thou  —  0  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 


TO  CONSTANTIA,   SINGING  49 

VII 

The  da}^  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past  —  there  is  a  harmony 
In  antumn,  and  a  histre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  couhl  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been ! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply  80 

Its  calm  —  to  one  who  worships  thee, 

And  every  form  containing  thee. 

Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


TO   CONSTANTIA,  SINGING 


Thus  to  be  lost  and  thus  to  sink  and  die, 

Perchance  were  death  indeed!  —  Constantia,  turn! 

In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth  lie. 
Even  though  tlie  sounds  which  were  thy  voice,  w^hich 
burn 

Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep; 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like  odor  it  is  yet, 


50  TO   CONSTANTIA,   SINGING 

And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  dotli  leap. 

Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks  are  wet, 
Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  but  not  forget ! 

II 

A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change  lo 

Unseen,  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers, 
Wild,  sweet,  but  uncommunicably  strange, 

Thou  breathest  now  in  fast  ascending  numbers. 
The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 

By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain. 
And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven, 

To  follow  its  sublime  career. 
Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 

Upon  the  verge  of  nature's  utmost  sphere, 

Till  the  world's  shadowy  walls  are  past  and  dis- 
appear. 20 
III 

Her  voice  is  hovering  o'er  my  soul  —  it  lingers 
Overshadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling  wings, 

The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy  fingers 
Teach  witchcraft  to  the  instrumental  strings. 

My  brain  is  wild,  my  breath  comes  quick  — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame. 

And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick, 


HYMN  OF  APOLLO  51 

Fall  ou  my  overflowing  eyes ; 
My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame ; 

As  morning  clew,  that  in  the  sunbeam  dies,  30 

I  am  dissolved  in  these  consuming  ecstasies. 

IV 

I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee. 

Whilst,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  song 

Flows  on,  and  fills  all  things  with  melody.  — 
Xow  is  thy  voice  a  tempest  swift  and  strong, 

On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne, 
Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep, 

Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  'tis  the  breath  of  summer  night, 

Which  when  the  starry  waters  sleep,  40 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms  bright, 
Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight. 

HYMN   OF   APOLLO 


The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  n^e  as  I  lie, 
Curtained  with  star-inwoven  tapestries. 

From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky. 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, 


52  HYMN  OF  APOLLO 

Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  the  gray  Dawn, 
Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

II 

Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  Heaven's  blue  dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam ; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire ;  the  caves 

Are  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air      n 

Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

Ill 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day; 

All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 
Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 

Good  minds  and  open  actions  take  new  might, 

Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  night. 

IV 

I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the  flowers 
With  their  ethereal  colors;  the  Moon's  globe      20 

And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 
Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe ; 


HTMK  OF  PAir  53 

Whatever  lamps  on  Earth  or  Heaven  may  shine, 
Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 


I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even  ; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown : 

What  look  is  more  delightful  than  the  smile  29 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle? 

VI 

I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine. 

All  light  of  art  or  nature ;  —  to  my  song, 

Victory  and  praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 

HYMN   OF   PAN 

I 
From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands. 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 


54  HYMN  OF  PAN 

Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass. 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

II 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 

And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day. 
Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves. 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns. 
And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves. 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

Ill 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 
I  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 


'arethusa  55 

And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars, 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, — 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menakis  30 

I  pnrsned  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed: 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


AEETHUSA 


°Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains,  - 

From  cloud  and  from  crag. 

With  many  a  jag. 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leaped  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams  ;  — 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 


56  AKETHUSA 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams : 

And  gliding  and  springing 

She  went,  ever  singing, 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 
As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

II 

Then  Alj^heus  bold. 

On  his  glacier  cold. 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ;  —  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below; 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  Kiver-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 


ARETHUSA  67 


As  he  followed  the  light 
Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 


HI 

"Oh,  save  me!  Oh,  guide  me! 

And  bid  the  deep  liMe  me, 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! " 

The  loud  Ocean  heard,  40 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fied  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream:  — 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main  50 

Alpheus  rushed  behind,  — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 


58  ARETHUSA 


IV 


Under  tlie  bowers 

Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones ;  60 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  colored  light ; 

And  under  the  caves. 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night :  -^ 

Outspeeding  the  shark, 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts  7° 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  pass  to  their  Dorian  home. 


And  now  from  their  fountains 
In  Enna's  mountains. 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 


SONG   OF  PROSERPINE  59 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep  80 

In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ;  — ■ 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more.  90 

SONG   OF   PEOSEKPINE 

WHILE    GATHERING    FLOWERS    ON    THE    PLAIN    OF    ENNA 

I 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth, 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom, 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth. 
Leaf  and  blade,  and  bud  and  blossom. 


60  SPIRIT  OF  DELIGHT 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 
On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 

II 

If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 
Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue. 

Fairest  children  of  the  hours. 
Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 

~^  SONG 


Karely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

II 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again  ? 


SrililT  OF  DELIGHT  61 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain.  lo 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

Ill 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Ivoproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

IV 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure. 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  corne  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 


I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight  ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  dressed, 


62  SPIRIT  OF  DELIGHT 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born.  30 

VI 

I  love  snow  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

VII 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good ; 

Between  thee  and  me  40 

What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

VIII 

I  love  Love  —  though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things. 

Spirit,  I  love  thee  — 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  63 

Thou  art  love  ami  life  !     Oli  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead. 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

LIKES 

WRITTEN    AMOXG    THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS 

October,  I0I8 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 


64  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily,  lo 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 

Eiving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore  20 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unrej)osing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat  j 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may,  30 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  65 

Can  lie  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  k)ve's  caress  ? 

Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 

AVliich  relenting  love  would  fold; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill; 

Every  little  living  nerve  40 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternariy, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones,  50 

Where  a  few  gra}^  rushes  stand 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land: 

[N'or  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 


66  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

When  a  king  In  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides : 

Those  unburied  bones  around  60 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Aye,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agrny : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led. 
My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted : 
Mid  the  mountains  Euganean  70 

I  stood  listening  to  the  paean, 
'With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 
The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 
Through  the  dewj^  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 
Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  67 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  phinies  of  purple  grain,  80 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  litful  gale 

Througli  the  broken  mist  they  sail. 

And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 

Kound  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea  90 

The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 

Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air. 

Islanded  by  cities  fair ; 

Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 

"Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 

With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 

Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind,  100 

Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 


68  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Of  the  waters  crystalline ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
"Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now. 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  °slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  69 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 

Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 

With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown  130 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way. 

Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 

Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death  140 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 

Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 

As  I  now  behold  theni  here. 

Would  imagine  not  they  were 

Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 

Like  pollution-nourished  worms 

To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 

INFurdered,  and  now  mouldering: 

But  if  Freedom  should  awake  150 


70  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

In  lier  omnipotence,  and  shake 

From  the  °Celtic  Anarch's  hold 

All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 

Twining  "memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  more  sublime ; 

If  not,  perish  thou  and  they,  i6o 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away. 

Earth  can  spare  ye  :  while  like  flowers, 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish  —  let  there  only  be 

Moating  o'er  thy  heartless  sea 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally,  170 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time. 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan ;  — 

That  a  °tempest-cleaving  Swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albiou; 


T^E  EUGANEAN  HILLS  71 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  °evil  dreams, 

Found  a  nest  in  thee  ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung  i8o 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 

('hastening  terror  :  —  what  though  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  Eiver, 

Which  through  Albion  winds  forever 

Lashing  with  melodious  wave 

Many  a  sacred  I^oet's  grave, 

Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ? 

What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 

Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay  190 

Aught  thine  own  ?  oh,  rather  say 

Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

Overcloud  a  sun-like  soul  ? 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs ; 

As  divinest  Shakespere's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 

Like  omniscient  power  which  he 

Imaged  mid  mortality ; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn,  200 


72  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly  ;  —  so  thou  art 

Mighty  °spirit  —  so  shall  be 

The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread, 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain, 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
Li  the  garner  of  his  foe, 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
HeajDcd  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  73 

And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 

Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 

Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 

Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 

Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 

To  destruction's  harvest-home :  230 

Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 

Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 

Or  worse ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 

That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 

The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 

Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 

Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 

Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win !  "  240 

And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 

But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 

That  lie  would  petition  for 

Her  to  be  made  Yice-Emperor, 

When  the  destined  years  were  o'er 

Over  all  between  the  Po 

And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 

Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 


74  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 

And  since  that  time,  aye,  long  before,  250 

Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 

Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 

As  Eepentance  follows  Crime, 

And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning ; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray:  260 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might ; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells,  270 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  76 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born  : 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear :  so  thou, 

0  Tyranny  !  beholdest  now  280 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 

Grovel  on  the  earth !  aye,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 

'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 

Or  an  air  dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far  390 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 

Wliere  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 


T(5  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

With  liis  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  goklen  vines, 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines  300 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded : 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one ;  310 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky : 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon  320 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS  77 

Leading  the  infantine  moon, 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Ahnost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

Mid  remembered  agonies,  330 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being,) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf :  even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

Witli  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit  340 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love. 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 


78  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine  350 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine : 

We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air. 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice    ♦ 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  wind  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves  360 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies. 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood : 

They,  not  it,  would  change ;  and  soon  370 


OZYMAXDIAS  79 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 
Woukl  repent  its  envy  vain, 
And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  "antique  land 

Who  said :  "  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command. 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed : 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 

*  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  :  lo 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair ! ' 

Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  °far  away." 


80  THE   COLD  EARTH  SLEPT  BELOW 

LINES 


The  cold  earth  slept  below, 

Above  the  cold  sky  shone ; 
And  all  around,  with  a  chilling  sound, 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow. 
The  breath  of  night  like  death  did  flow 

Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 

II 

The  wintry  hedge  was  black. 

The  green  grass  was  not  seen, 
The  birds  did  rest  on  the  bare  thorn's  breast. 
Whose  roots,  beside  the  pathway  track,  i 

Had  bound  their  folds  o'er  many  a  crack. 

Which  the  frost  had  made  between. 

Ill 

Thine  eyes  glowed  in  the  glare 

Of  the  moon's  dying  light ; 
As  a  fen-fire's  beam  on  a  sluggish  stream. 
Gleams  dimly,  so  the  moon  shone  there. 
And  it  yellowed  the  strings  of  thy  raven  hair, 

That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 


THE   WORLD'S    WANDERERS  81 

IV 

The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  beloved  — 

The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill  —  20 

The  uight  did  shed  on  thy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  sky 
Might  visit  thee  at  will. 

THE   WORLD'S   WANDERERS 


Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 


Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 

Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Ill 

Weary  wind,  wdio  w^anderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 

G 


82  SUMMER  EVENING   CHURCHYARD 

Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


A   SUMMEE  EVENING   CHUECHYAED 

LECHLADE,    GLOUCESTERSHIRE 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 

Each  vapor  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray ; 

And  pallid  Evening  twines  its  beaming  hair 

In  °duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  Day : 

Silence  and  Twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 

Creex^  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  towards  the  departing  day, 
Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars,  and  sea ; 
Light,  sound,  and  motion  own  the  potent  sway, 
Eesponding  to  the  charm  with  its  own  mystery.         lo 
The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  church-tower  grass 
Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they  pass. 

Thou  too,  aerial  Pile  !  whose  pinnacles 
Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of  fire, 
Obeyest  in  silence  their  sweet  solemn  spells. 
Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and  distant  spire, 


SUMMER  E VEXING   CHURCHYARD  83 

Around  whose  lessening  and  invisible  height 
Gather  among  the  stars  the  clouds  of  night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres : 
And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrilling  sound        20 
Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  darkness  stirs, 
Breathed   from  their  wormy  beds   all    living  things 

around, 
And  mingling  with  the  still  night  and  mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  inaudibly. 

« 
Thus  solemnized  and  softened,  death  is  mild 
And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night : 
Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  inquiring  child 
Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide  from  human 

sight 
Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did  keep.        30 

TIME 

Unfathomable  Sea !  whose  waves  are  years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 

Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 

Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 

Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 


84  TIME 

And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Voniitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore ; 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 

Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 

Unfathomable  Sea  ? 

TO  NIGHT 


Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  -wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

II 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day  m 

Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out. 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long  sought ! 


TO  NWIIT  85 

III 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest,  20 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

IV 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"  Wouldst  thou  me  ?  " 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed. 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee. 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
"  Wouldst  thou  me  ?  "  —  And  I  replied, 

''  No,  not  thee !  '^ 

V 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon —  30 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon! 


86  A  LAMENT 

A   LAMEISTT 
I 

O  WORLD  !  0  life !  0  time ! 
On  wliose  last  steps  I  climb 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before : 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more ! 

II 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar. 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
,    No  more  —  oh,  never  more ! 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR   NAPLES 


The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 


stI^zas  87 

The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 
Around  its  imexpanded  buds; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 
The  winds,  tlie  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

II 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor  lo 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  lights  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown : 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion. 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Ill 

Alas !   I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  piece  within  nor  calm  around,  20 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 


88  STAkZAS 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ;  — 
To  nie  that  cux3  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

IV 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child,  30 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 

Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 
Till  death  like  s^^ep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feei  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 


Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  SAveet  day  is  gone. 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan ;  <io 

They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not,  —  and  yet  regret, 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


SONGS  FROM  PEOMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

A    VOICE    IN    THE    AIR    SINGING 

Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  hre ;  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  liide  them ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them  ;  lo 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee, 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 
Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sighti,  that  liquid  splendor, 
And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  forever ! 


90  SONGS 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  soul  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing! 

ASIA 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever. 

Upon  that  many-winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses,  ^ 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound. 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  everspreading  sound : 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions  ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 


SONGS  91 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 
But,  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets  20 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots. 

Where  never  mortal  pinnance  glided, 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Whicli  in  the  winds  and  on  tlie  waves  doth  move. 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  past  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee  30 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers. 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see. 
And  rest,  having  beheld  ;  somewliat  like  thee  ; 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously ! 


92  ADONAIS 


ADOKAIS 

AN    ELEGY    ON     THE    DEATH    OF    JOHN    KEATS,    AUTHOR 
OF    EXDYMION,     HYPERION,    ETC. 

Acrrifip  irplv  fxku  eXa/xwes  ivi  ^Qoktiv  ecDos  * 
'NOv  5e  davwv  AdyUTrets  ^airepoi  ev  (ftdifxeyoLS. 

—  Plato. 

PREFACE 

^dpjjxtKov  fjXde^  B/wi',  ttotI  ahv  (rrS/xa^  (pap/JiaKov  etSes. 
Ilajs  rev  roh  xetXecrcrt  7roTe8pa/x€,  kovk  iyXvKavdTj ; 
Tts  8^  PpoTOS  ToaaovTov  dvdfiepoi,  tj  Kepdaai  tol, 
"H  bovvai  XaX^opTi  to  (pdpfxaKov ;  €K(pvyev  (hddi/. 

—  MoscHus,  Epitaph.  Bion. 


I  ^YEEP  for  °Adoiiais  —  he  is  dead ! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow!  Say:  "With  me 
Died  Adonais  ;  till  the  future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity !  " 


AJJOXAIS  93 


n 


Where  wert  thou,  °mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay,    lo 
AVheii  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
^lid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  failing  melodies. 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  be- 
neath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 


Ill 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep !  20 

Yet  wherefore  ?     Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend ;  —  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Deatli  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  de- 
spair. 


94  ADONAIS 


IV 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again  ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania !  —  He  died, 
Who  was  the  °Sire  of  an  immortal  strain,  30 

Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  Avhen  his  country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide. 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death ;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth     the  third  among  the  sons  of 
light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time  40 
In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime. 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road. 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene 
abode. 


ADONAIS  95 

VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  °sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  Aveep  anew  !  50 

Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipped  before  they  blew 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste  ; 
The  broken  lily  lies  — the  storm  is  overpassed. 


To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came ;    and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come  away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof  !   while  still  60 

He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not !    surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more!  — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace, 


96  ADONAIS 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  j 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface  70 

So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 

IX 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  —  the  °quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not,  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung ;    and  mourn 

their  lot 
E-ound  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet    80 

pain. 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries ; 
"  Our  love,  oiu-  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead  j 


ADONAIS  07 

See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain.  90 

XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
AVashed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them ; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem. 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  lire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

XII 

Another  Splendor  on  his  month  alit,  100 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit. 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  ui)on  his  icy  lips ; 
n 


98  ADONAIS 

And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cokl  night  clips. 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its 
eclipse. 

XIII 

And  others  came  —  Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persua^ons  and  veiled  Destinies,  no 

Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Fantasies ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes. 
Came  in  slow  pomp ;  —  the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought. 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought  120 

Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground. 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned. 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay. 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 


ADONAIS  99 

XV 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains,       129 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  :  —  a  drear 
^[urmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 

XVI 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw 

down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves  ;  since  her  delight  is  flown 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year  ? 
To  Phcebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear  140 

Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais  :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears,  odor,  to  sighing  ruth. 


100  AD0NAI8 


XVII 


Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  °lorn  nightingale, 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain  ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain. 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest,        150 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee  :  the  °curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest! 

XVIII 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !     Winter  is  come  and  gone. 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year ; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 

Fresh   leaves  and  flowers   deck  the  dead  Seasons' 

bier ; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere  ;  160 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake. 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 


ADOJVAIS  101 

XIX 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and 

Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
Ei;om  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;  in  its  stream  immersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight,  170 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

XX 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  w^hen  splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath  ; 
Naught  we  knoAV,  dies.     Shall  °that  alone  which 

knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning?  — the  °intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose.  180 


102  AD  ON  A  IS 


XXI 


Alas  !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and  mean      ^ 
Meet   massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must 

borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to 

sorrow. 

XXII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more !  190 

"  Wake  thou,''  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried :  "  Arise !  " 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendor  sprung. 


ADONAIS  103 


XXIII 


She  rose  like  an  autumnal  jSTight,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear  200 

The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings. 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Has  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 

Through  camps   and  cities   rough  with  stone,  and 

steel. 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  airy  tread  210 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than 

they 
.  Kent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 

Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 


104  ADONAIS 

XXV 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Kevisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light  22c 

Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight. 
"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night  I 
Leave  me  not !  "  cried  Urania :  her  distress 
Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her 
vain  caress. 

XXYI 

"  fStay  yet  awhile !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 

And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 

That  word,  that   kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  sur- 
vive. 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive,  230 

Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais !     I  would  give 

All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I   am  chained  to   Time,  and  cannot  thence  de- 
part ! 


J  DONA  IS  105 

XXVTI 

"  0  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert,     • 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too   soon,   and   with  weak   hands    though  mighty 

heart 
Dare  the  °unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
°Wisdoni  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ?  240 
Or  liadst  thou  Avaited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like 

deer. 

XXVIII 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion ;  —  how  they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  °Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped  250 

And  smiled !  —  The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying 
low. 


106  ADONAIS 

XXIX 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn  \ 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men : 
A  god-like  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the   swarms  that   dimmed   or  shared   its 
light  260 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamp  the  spirit's  awful  night." 


XXX 

Thus    ceased    she :    and  the   mountain    shepherds 

came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument. 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  °sorrow ;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  °sweetest  lyrists  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And   love  taught   grief   to  fall  like  music   from   his 

tongue.  270 


ADONAIS  107 

XXXI 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  °one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actseon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging   hounds,  their  father  and  their 
prey. 

XXXII 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift —  280 

A  Love  in  desolation  masked :  —  a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ;  —  it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow ;  —  even  whilst  w^e  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may 
break. 


108  ADONAIS 


XXXIII 


His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown,    • 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ;        29a 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever  beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  °herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

XXXIV 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 

Smiled  through  their  tears  ;  well  knew  that  gentle 

band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ;  300 

As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land. 
He  sung  new  sorrow  ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured :     "  AVho  art 

thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow. 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's.     Oh,  that  it  should 

be  so! 


ADONAIS  109 

XXXV 

What  °softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 

What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  deathbed, 

111  mockery  of  monumental  stone,  310 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 

If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 

Taught,     soothed,     loved,    honored    the     departed 

one ; 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXVI 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone  320 

Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong. 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose    master's    hand    is    cold,   whose    silver    lyre 
unstrun*^. 


110  ADONAIS 

XXXVII 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow :  330 

Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt  —  as  now. 

XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now,  — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  °portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow  340 

Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same. 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of 
shame. 

XXXIX 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep  — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life  — 


ADONAIS  111 

'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visionSj  keep 
With  phantoms  an  un})rotitabIe  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  s^oirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.  —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day,  350 

A.nd  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living 
clay. 

XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest,  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  °secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn.  360 

XLI 

He  lives,  he  wakes  —  'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he  ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  —  Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 


112  ABONAIS 

Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 
Wliicli  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 

XLII 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature  :  there  is  heard         370 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
in  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear    380 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  X3lastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 

there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  the  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 


ADONAIS  113 


And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 


XLIV 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb,    390 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  °mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Eose    from    their    thrones,    built    beyond    mortal 

thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     °Chatterton 
Eose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not  400 

Yet  faded  from  him  ;  °Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;  and  °Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved, 
I 


114  ADONAIS 


XLVI 


And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Eose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry,  410 

"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  °Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume    thy    winged    throne,    thou    Vesper    of    our 
throng ! " 

XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?     Oh,  come  forth, 
Fond  °wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference :  then  shrink  420 

Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the 
brink. 


ADONAIS  115 

XLVIII 

Or  go  to  Home,  whieli  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh !  not  of  liim,  but  of  our  joy  :  'tis  naught 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend,  —  they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought  430 

Wlio  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Eome,  —  at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise. 
And  flowering  weeds,  and. fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead,         440 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand : 


116  ADONAIS 

And  one  °keen  pyramiel  Avith  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
A  held  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death 
Welcoming   him    we   lose    with    scarce    extinguished 
breath.  450 

LI 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  fall,  if  thou  returnest  home. 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

LII 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ;       460 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 


ADOXAIS  117 

Viitil  Death  tram  pies  it  to  fragments.  — Die, 
If  thou  wouhlst  be  with  that  whicli  thou  dost  seek  ! 
FoHow  where  all  is  fled  !  —  Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak 

LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here  470 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man,  and  w^oman;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  tnake  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles,  —  the  low  wind  whispers  near ; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  !  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  pan  join  together. 

LIV 

That  Light  wdiose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  lieauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse  480 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
])y  man  aud  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 


118  ADOXAIS 

Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ;        49c 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


POEMS   FROM   KEATS 
ODE   TO   A  NIGHTINGALE 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  case. 

n 

0,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth 
119 


120  ODE   TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

0,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  °Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  :    20 

III 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.     30 

IV 

Away !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  F)acchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 


ODE   TO  A   mOHTINGALE  121 

Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  wliat  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through   verdurous  glooms   and   winding  mossy 
ways.  40 

V 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

ISTor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 

Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.  50 

VI 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  (puet  breath ; 


122  ODE   TO  A   NIGHTINGALE 

T^ow  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 


To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  ]30uring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

VII 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  trfead  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Euth,  when,  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 

VIII 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 

Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 


ODE   TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  123 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley -glades  : 

Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ?  80 

ODE   ON   A    GRECIAN   URN 


Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietnesS'! 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

AVhat  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ?  lo 

II 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 


124  ODE  TO  A   GRECIAN  URN 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  tliough  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair !  20. 

Ill 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
.And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young ; 
AH  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue.         30 

IV 

Wlio  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  0  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed  ? 


ODE   TO  A   GRECIAN  URN  125 

What  little  town  by  river  or  seashore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 

V 

Attic  shape  !  Fair  attitude  !  w^ith  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.        50 

ODE   TO   PSYCHE 

0  Goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 
Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear  : 


126  ODE   TO  PSYCHE 

Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  awakened  eyes  ? 
I  wandered  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise, 
Saw  °two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 
In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof 
Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espied : 

'Mid  hushed,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing,  on  the  bedded  grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too ; 

Their  lips  touched  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love : 
The  winged  boy  I  knew  ; 

But  who  wast  thou,  0  happy,  happy  dove  ? 
His  Psyche  true  ! 

0  latest  born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  ! 
Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-regioned  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky ; 


ODE   TO  PSYCHE  127 

Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 

iSTor  altar  heaped  with  flowers ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  °delicious  moan  30 

Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 
Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre. 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 
Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire  j 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired  40 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 
Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming ; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane  50 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 


128  ODE   TO  PSYCHE 

Where  branched  thoughts,  new  grown  with  pleasant 
pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind: 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-clustered  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees. 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lulled  to  sleep ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
AYith  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain,  60 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name. 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign. 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same : 
And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night. 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 

TO  AUTUMN 

I 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  Adnes  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run ; 


TO  AUTUMN  129 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 
And  till  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
AVith  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more. 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease,  lo 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

II 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
°Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ;  20 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Ill 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Aye,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 


130  TO  AUTUMN 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ;       29 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 


No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kissed 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily. 

And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul.    10 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY  131 


II 


But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  fiowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave. 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Em  prison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 

And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes.    20 

III 

She  dwells  with  Beauty  —  Beauty  that  must  die  ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips : 
Aye,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veiled  Melancholy  has  her  °sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous 
tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might. 

And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung.  30 


132  FANCY 

FANCY 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  toucli  sweet  Pleasure  meltetli. 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  Avander  5 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her : 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

0  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use,  lo 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming ; 

Autumn's  red-lipped  fruitage  too. 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muf&ed, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled  20 

From  the  ploughboy's  °heavy  shoon ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 


FANCY  '  133 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overawed, 

Fancy,  high-commissioned :  —  send  her ! 

She  has  vassals'  to  attend  her  : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ;  30 

She  will  bring  thee,  altogether, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth: 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  ht  wines  in  a  cup. 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it :  —  thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ;  40 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 

And,  in  the  same  moment  —  hark  I 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark. 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  "sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 


134  *  FANCY 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ;  i;o 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-]\Iay ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin; 

Ereckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree,  60 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

When  the  bee-hive  cast  its  swarm ; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose ; 
Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
AVhere's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?     Where's  the  maid  70 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue. 


FANCY  '    135 

Doth  not  weary  ?     Where's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  nielteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind :  80 

Dulcet-eyed  as  °Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  eliide; 

With  a  waist  and  Avith  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  Avhen  her  zone 

Slipped  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid.  — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash ;  9c 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


136  LA  BELLE  DAME  SAXS  MERCI 

LA  BELLE   DAME   SA:N^S   MEKCI 


Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
Alone  and  jDalely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

II 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

Ill 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew ; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 

IV 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful,  —  a  faery's  child ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I  137 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 


VI 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head. 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 


VII 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
"  I  love  thee  true.'^ 

VIII 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  gazed  and  sighed  deep,  30 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes  — • 

So  kissed  to  sleep. 


138  LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

IX 

And  there  we  slumbered  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dreamed,  ah  woe  betide, 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 


I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

Who  cried  —  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !  " 

XI 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloom 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 

XII 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


SOLITUDE  139 

SOLITUDE 

0  SOLITUDE  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 

Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 

Of  murky  buildings ;  climb  with  me  to  the  steep,  — 
Nature's  observatory  —  whence  the  dell, 
Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell, 

May  seem  a  span ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 

'Mongst  boughs  pavilioned,  where  the  deer's  swift 
leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 
But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee. 

Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind,  lo 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure ;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 
When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 

ON   FIEST   LOOKING   INTO   CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

AYhich  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 


140  ON  THE  SEA 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  "Chax^man  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;  k 

Or  like  stout  °Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

ON   THE   SEA 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 

Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 

Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  moved  for  days  from  whence  it  sometime  fell, 

When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 

Oh  ye !  who  have  your  eye-balls  vexed  and  tired. 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea ;  i 

Oh  ye !  whose  ears  are  dinned  with  uproar  rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody,  — 

Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and  brood 

Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired ! 


TWO  SOXNETS   ON  FAME  141 

TWO   SONNETS   ON   FAME 


Fame,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 

To  those  who  woo  her  with  too  slavish  knees, 

But  makes  surrender  to  some  thoughtless  boy,     • 

And  dotes  the  more  upon  a  heart  at  ease ; 

She  is  a  Gi2:)sy,  will  not  speak  to  those 

Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  without  her ; 

A  Jilt,  whose  ear  was  never  whispered  close, 

AVho   thinks    they    scandal    her    who    talk    about 

her ; 
A  very  Gipsy  is  she,  Nilus-born, 
Sister-in-law  to  jealous  Potiphar;  lo 

Ye  love-sick  Bards,  repay  her  scorn  for  scorn. 
Ye  Artists  lovelorn,  madmen  that  ye  are  ! 
Make  your  best  bow  to  her  and  bid  adieu, 
Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 

II 

"  You  cannot  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too."  —  Proverb. 

How  fevered  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look 
Upon  liis  mortal  days  with  temperate  blood. 
Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book, 


142  SONNET  TO  SLEEP 

And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maidenhood ; 

It  is  as  if  the  rose  should  phick  herself, 

Or  the  ripe  plum  finger  its  misly  bloom,  20 

As  if  a  Naiad,  like  a  meddling  elf, 

Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy  gloom. 

But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  brier. 

For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful  bees  to  feed, 

And  the  ripe  plum  still  wears  its  dim  attire. 

The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space. 

Why  then  should  man,  teasing  the  world  for  grace, 

Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed  ? 

SONNET   TO   SLEEP 

0  SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight. 

Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benign, 

Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embowered  from  the  light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  : 

O  aoothest  Sleep !   if  so  it  please  thee,  close. 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 

Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities ; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 

Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes,  —  ic 

Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 


SO^''NET  TO  HOMER  143 

Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a  mole  j 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 


SONNET   TO   HOMEE, 

Staxdixg  aloof  in  °giant  ignorance, 

Of  thee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 

As  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  perchance 

To  visit  Dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 

80  thou  wast  blind  ;  —  but  then  the  veil  was  rent, 

For  Jove  uncurtained  Heaven  to  let  thee  live, 

And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spumy  tent, 

And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  his  forest-hive. 

Aye,  on  the  shores  of  darkness  there  is  light, 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green. 

There  is  a  °budding  morrow  in  midnight, 

There  is  a  triple  sight  in  blindness  keen ; 

Such  seeing  hadst  thou,  as  it  once  befel 

To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Hell. 


144  LINES  FROM  ENDYMION 


OPENING   LINES   OF   ENDYMION 

BOOK    I  ^ 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 

Its  loveliness  increases ;   it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways  lo 

Made  for  our  searching  :   yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  si^irits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old,  and  youngj  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep ;   and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;   and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid  forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms : 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms  20 


LIXEH  FROM  ENDYMION  145 

We  have  iniagiuecl  for  the  mighty  dead ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heai'd  or  read: 
All  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
roaring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 

For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 

That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 

Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 

The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 

Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light  30 

Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast. 

That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 

They  always  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 


146  /  STOOD    TIP -TOE 


POEM 

"Places  of  nestling  green  for  Poets  made." 

—  Story  of  Rimini. 

I  STOOD  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill, 

Tlie  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 

Their  scantly  leaved,  and  finely  tapering  stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept      lo 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves. 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves : 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wand'ring  for  the  greediest  eye. 

To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim. 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  °brim ; 


I  STOOD   TIP -TOE  147 

To  picture  out  the  quaint,  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley,  never  ending;  20 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  °jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  played  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft,  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May  flowers  with  the  °bees  about  them ; 
Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  would  be  without  them ;     30 
And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them. 
And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots  to  keep  them 
INIoist,  cool,  and  green ;  and  shade  the  violets, 
That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert  hedge  with  wild  brier  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  °chequer  of  a  youngling  tree. 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  :  40 

Kound  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters 


148  /  STOOD   TIP-TOE 

The  spreading  blue  bells :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 

Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 

For  great  Apollo  bids  50 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses. 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale, 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tip-toe  for  a  flight : 

With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white. 

And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 

To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings.  6a 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks. 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings : 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend ; 


/  STOOD    TIP -TOE  149 

Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  overhanging  sallows :  blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequered  shadows  pass. 

Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach  70 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds ; 

AVhere  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 

Staying  their  °\vavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams. 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Tempered  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand. 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand. 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain; 

But  turn  .your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again.  80 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  em'rald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live : 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favors. 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low  hung  branches ;  little  space  they  stop ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak :  90 


150  /  STOOD    TIP -TOE 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black,  and  golden  wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  °yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That  naught  less  sweet,  might  call  my  thoughts  away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought.  loo 

0,  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook. 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips,  and  downward  look ; 

0,  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 

Leb  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 

And  as  she  leaves  me  may  she  often  turn       • 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburn. 

What  next  ?     A  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap  no 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 


/  STOOD    TIP-TOE  151 

0,  Maker  of  sweet  poets,  dear  delight 

Of  this  fair  workl,  and  all  its  gentle  livers  ; 

Spangler  of  clonds,,  halo,  of  crystal  rivers, 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams, 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams,  120 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering ! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light  ? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine  5 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  °staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade :  130 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  Avings, 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings: 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces. 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases ; 

O'erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet  brier, 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire: 

Wliile  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world,  139 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreathed  and  curled. 


152  I  STOOD    TIP-TOE 

So  felt  he,  who  first  tohl  how  Psyche  went 

On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 

What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 

First  touched ;  what  amorous,  and  fondling  nips 

They  gave  each  other's  cheeks ;  with  all  their  sighs, 

And  how  they  kissed  each  other's  tremulous  eyes : 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  upflown, 

To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 

So  did  he  feel,  who  pulled  the  boughs  aside, 

That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide,  150 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 

Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees ; 

And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and  sweet, 

Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet ; 

Telling  us  how  fair,  trembling  Syrinx  fled 

Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 

Poor  nymph,  —  poor  Pan,  —  how  he  did  weep  to  find 

Naught  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 

Along  the  reedy  stream  ;  a  half-heard  strain, 

Full  of  sweet  desolation  —  balmy  pain.  160 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  °pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round ; 


1  STOOD   TIP-TOE  153 

And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 

Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool, 

The  blue  sky  here,  and  there,  serenely  peeping 

Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping. 

And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  sjiied, 

A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  naught  of  pride,      170 

Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness, 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness : 

Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move; 

But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 

So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot. 

Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 

Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 

Of  young  Narcissus,  and  "sad  Echo's  bale. 

Where  had  he  been,  from  wdiose  warm  head  out-flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new,  iSo 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight  ?  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars ; 


154  I. STOOD    TIP-TOE 

Into  some  wond'rous  region  tie  liad  gone, 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion !  190 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too. 

Who  stood  on  Latmus'  top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 

And  brought  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow 

A  hymn  from  Dian's  temple ;  while  upswelling, 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's  eyes, 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 

The  Poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate. 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate  :  200 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won, 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air  ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 

Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen ! 

As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine. 

So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 

O,  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I  might 

Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels 

Phoebus  awhile  delayed  his  mighty  wheels,  210 


y  STOOD    TIP- TOE  155 

And  turned  to  smile  upon  tliy  bashful  eyes, 

Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 

The  evening  weatiier  was  so  bright,  and  clear, 

That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer ; 

Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call, 

Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 

The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure, 

And  crept  through  half-closed  lattices  to  cure 

The  languid  sick ;  it  cooled  their  fevered  sleep, 

And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep.         220 

Soon  they  awoke  clear  eyed  :  nor  burnt  with  thirsting, 

Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting : 

And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring  sight 

Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight ; 

Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed 

^Vith  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amazed 

To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes ; 

And  so  they  stood,  filled  with  a  sweet  sui'prise. 

Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  poesy. 

Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die :  230 

But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken. 

Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken. 


156  ISABELLA 

ISABELLA; 

Oft, 

THE  POT  OF  BASIL 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye ! 
They  could  not  in  tlie  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  hoAV  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleepy 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

II 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer,. 

With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still  ;■ 
He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir,. 

But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 
And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 

To  her  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 
Her  hite-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 
She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 


ISABELLA  loT 

III 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 

Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies ;  20 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turned  to  the  same  skies ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  liear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

IV 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
^lade  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June : 

"  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon.''  — 

*'  0,  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo, ",if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune." —      30 

So  sj)ake  they  to  their  pillows ;  but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  j 

V 

Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouched  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain, 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's^  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain ; 


158  ISABELLA 

♦'  How  ill  she  is,"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
And  3^et  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain : 
If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  lier  tears, 
And  at  the  least  ^twill  startle  off  her  cares." 


VI 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side ; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away  — 
Fevered  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride. 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child : 

Alas !  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild ! 

VII 

So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished  v 
A  drear}^  night  of  love  and  misery. 

If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high ; 

She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead. 

And  straight  all  flushed ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 

"  Lorenzo  !  "  —  here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest, 

But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 


ISABELLA  159 

VIII 

"  0  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive    ■ 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear ; 

If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe, 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near  6a 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  Avoidd  not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing ;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX 

''  Love !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time/' 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold, 

And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme :  7c 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


Parting  they  seemed  to  tread  upon  the  air. 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 


160  ISABELLA 

She,  to  lier  cliamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 

Sang,  of  delicious  .love  and  honeyed  dart ; 
He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill. 
And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joyed  his  fill.  8a 

XI 

All  close  they  meet  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil. 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 

Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale. 

Ah !  better  had  it  been  forever  so, 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe. 

XII 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ?  —  it  cannot  be  — 

Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed,  90 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead. 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see. 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  si)uuse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 


ISABELLA  161 

xiri 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  iiui(;li  bitterness; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 

And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress,  loo 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 
AVas  not  embalmed,  this  truth  is  not  the  less  — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers, 

Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 

XIV 

With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 

Enriched  from  ancestral  mercliandise. 
And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 

In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories. 
And  many  once  proud-c][uivered  loins  did  melt 

In  blood  from  stinging  whip  ;  —  with  hollow  eyes  no 
]\Iany  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 
To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 


^&^ 


XV 


For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 

Foi  them  his  ears  gushed  blood ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 


162  ISABELLA 

Lay  full  of  darts ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 

A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark : 
Ilalf-ignorant,  they  turned  an  easy  wheel, 
That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel.        120 

XVI 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  their  marble  founts 
Gushed  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears  ?  — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  assent  than  lazar  stairs  ?  — 

Wh}^  were  they  ^^roud  ?     Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ?  — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 

XVII 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 

In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice,  130 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired. 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests  —  the  untired 
And  panniered  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies  — 

(}uick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away,  — 

(Ireat  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 


ISABELLA  163 

XVIII 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?     Hot  Egypt's  pest         140 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west?  — 
Yet  so  tlu^y  did  —  and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX 

0  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

(;)f  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon. 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Xow  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune,    150 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 

XX 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 

Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet : 


164  ISABELLA 

But  it  is  clone  —  succeed  tlie  verse  or  fail  — 
To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north- wind  sung.  i6o 

XXI 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 

What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had,  f 

And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconlines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well-nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 

And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone,  170 

Before  they  fixed  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone  \ 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  th§i'§  bury  him. 


ISABELLA  165 


XXIII 


So  on  a,  pleasant  mofning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews;  and  to  him  said,  iSo 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loath  to  invade 
Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise, 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV 

To-day  we  purpose,  aye,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine ; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont. 

Bowed  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine  ;     tqg 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness, 

AVith  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  passed  along, 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listened  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 


166  ISABELLA 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 

He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft : 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight.  200 

« 

XXVI 

'^  Love,  Isabel ! "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow ; 

Ah !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

Good-by  !    I'll    soon    be    back."  —  "  Good-by  !  "    said 
she:  — 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  °murdered  man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream   210 

Gurgles  through  straitened  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.  —  They  passed  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 


ISABELLA  107 


XXVIII 


There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 

Ah  !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 

It  aches  in  loneliness  —  is  ill  at  peace  220 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  ; 

They  dipped  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands. 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  Girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed. 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands  ;  230 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow. 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  0  misery ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 


168  ISABELLA 


His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seemed  to  see, 
And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air,  239 

And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,  "  Where  ?  0  where  ? " 


XXXI 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 

Not  long  —  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occu];)ants,  a  richer  zest, 

Came  tragic ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXII 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

l>y  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 


ISABELLA  169 

XXXIII 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 

She  asked  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long  ?     They  spake  a  tale  260 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  °Hinnom's  vale ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groaned  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

XXXIV 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 

But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feathered  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a  lance, 

Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall  270 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

XXXV 

It  was  a  vision.  —  In  the  drowsy  gloom, 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  lier  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 

Had  marred  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 


170  ISABELLA 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 
From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loanied  ears 
Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears.  280 

XXXVI 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake; 

For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake. 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung: 
Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 

As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 
And  through  it  moaned  a  ghostly  under-song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briers  among. 

XXXVII 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 

With  love,  and  ke]3t  all  phantom  fear  aloof  290 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light. 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darkened  time,  —  the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice,  —  the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest,  —  and  the  sodden  turfed  dell, 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 


ISABELLA  171 

XXXVIII 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Eed  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head, 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed  300 

Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
Go,  slied  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

XXXIX 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature  dwelling 
Alone :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling, 
And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 

And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling,  31c 

Paining  me  through  :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me, 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad ; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss. 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 


172  ISABELLA 

A  Serapli  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad ; 
Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 
A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal."  520? 

XLI 

The  Spirit  mourned  "  Adieu  !  "  —  dissolved,  and  left 

The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 
As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 

Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil, 
We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil ;: 
It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake. 

XLII 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery  ;  33c 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portioned  us  —  happy  days,  or  else  to  die  ; 

But"  there  is  crime  —  a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  spirit,  thou  hast  schooled  my  infancy  : 

I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 

And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 


ISABELLA  173 

XLIII 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 

And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ;  340 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised. 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Kesolved,  she  took  with  her  an  «,ged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

XLIV 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  Dame, 

xlnd,  after  looking  round  that  campaign  wide. 

Shows  her  a  knife.  —  "  What  feverish  hectic  flame 

Burns  in  thee,  child  ?  —  What  good  can  thee  betide, 
That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  ?  "  —  The  evening 
came,  ,  350 

And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed ; 

The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 

XLV 

Who  hath  not  loitered  in  a  green  church-yard, 

And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-ULole, 
Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 


174  ISABELLA 

To  see  scull,  coffined  bones,  and  funeral  stole ; 
Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marred, 

And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 
Ah !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 
When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt.  360 

XLVI 

She  gazed  into  the  fregh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seemed  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVII 

Soon  she  turned  up. a  soiled  glove,  whereon 

Her  silk  had  played  in  purple  phantasies,  370 

She  kissed  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 

And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries  : 

Then  'gan  she  work  again ;  nor  stayed  her  care. 

But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 


ISABELLA  175 

XLVIII 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar,  380 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 

Three  hours  they  labored  at  this  travail  sore : 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave. 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
0  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance. 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong  390 

To  speak  :  —  0  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


With  duller  steel  than  the  °  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.     The  ancient  harps  have  said, 


176  ISABELLA 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord ; 

If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 
Pale  Isabella  kissed  it,  and  low  moaned.  399 

'Twas  love ;  cold,  —  dead  indeed,  but  not  dethroned. 

LI 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home. 

And  then  the  prize  Avas  all  for  Isabel : 
She  calmed  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 

And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 
Pointed  each  fringed  lash ;  the  smeared  loam 

With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well. 
She  drenched  away  :  —  and  still  she  combed,  and  kept 
Sighing  all  day  —  and  still  she  kissed  and  wept. 

LII 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf,  —  sweet  with  the  dews 

Of  precious  flowers  plucked  in  Araby,  410 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully,  — 

She  wrapped  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 

And  covered  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 


ISABELLA  111 

LIII 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  bhie  above  the  trees. 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 

And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ;  420 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 

And  moistened  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 

LIV 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears. 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew. 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears. 

From  the  fast   mouldering   head  there    shut   from 
view :  430 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leaflets  spread. 

LV 

0  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile ! 

0  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly, 
0  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 


178  ISABELLA 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  0  sigh! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs.  440 

LVI 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  °Melpomene ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low  5 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead  :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVI  I 

0  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself ; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour !  —       450 
It  may  not  be  —  those  °Baalites  of  pelf. 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wondered  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  marked  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 


ISABELLA  179 

LVIII 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wondered  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 

And  why  it  flourished,  as  by  magic  touch ;  450 

Greatly  they  wondered  what  the  thing  might  mean  : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 

LIX 

Therefore  they  watched  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim;  and  long  they  watched  in  vain; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain ; 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift  ' 

As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again ;  470 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX 

Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face: 


1^  ISABELLA 

The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 

And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  sijace, 
Never  to  turn  again.  —  Away  they  went 
With  blood  upon  their  heads  to  banishment.  480 

LXI 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

0  Music,  Music,  breathe  despond ingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  0  sigh ! 
Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way ! " 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

LXII 

Piteous  she  looked  on  dead  and  senseless  things, 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously ;  490 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 

After  the  °Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was  ;  and  why 

'Twas  hid  from  her :  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she^ 

<*  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 


ISABELLA  181 

LXIII 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
Ko  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast.  500 

And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  borne 

From   mouth   to   mouth   through   all   the   country 
passed : 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung  —  "0  cruelty, 
To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me !  '^ 


182  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES 


°St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

II 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ;  lo 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  183 

III 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue  20 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no  —  already  had  his  deathbell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve; 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft,  30 

The  silver,  °snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on 
their  breasts. 

V 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 


184  THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily  39 

The  brain,  new  stuffed,  in  youth  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  soul-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night. 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ;  50 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desira 

VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine. 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  l)y  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  185 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier,  60 

And  back  retired;  not  cooled  by  liigh  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  lieart  was  otherwhere : 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

VIII 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort,  70 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 

She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 

Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 

For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors. 

Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 

But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 


18G  THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES 

That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ;  80 

Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul.        90 

XI 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "  Merc}^,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place ; 
They  are  all   here   to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty 
race ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  187 

XIT 

"  Get   hence !    get   hence !    there's   dwarfish   Hilde- 
brand ;  loo 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  ^Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  —  "  Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
We're  safe  enough  ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  "  —  "  Good  Saints  !  not  here,  not 
here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or   else  these   stones  will   be   thy 
bier." 

XIII 

He  followed  througl*  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume,  no 

And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day ! '' 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  0  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously.'^ 


188  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

XIV 

^^  Bt.  Agnes !  Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  °witch's  sieve,  120 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

XV 

•Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle-book,         130 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES  189 

Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
^^  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art :  140 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  ajmrt 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !^  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that   thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  ''  0  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ;  150 

Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 


190  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were    never    missed."  —  Thus    plaining,    doth   she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  i6o 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met  i;o 

Since  °Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

XX 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame  : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.    AGNES  191 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead."      iSo 

XXI 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed ; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  190 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
-  E-ose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Kow  prepare, 


192  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 

Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  frayed  and 
fled. 

XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died :  200 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass,  210 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and 
kings. 


THE  F.VE   OF  ST.    A  ONES  198 

XXV 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  °gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Kose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  pressed,     220 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
Ajid  on  her  hair  a  glor}^,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  dressed, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

XXVI 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees :  23a 

Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

XXVII 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 


194  THE  EVE   OF  ST.    AGNES 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Mown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  liavened  both  from  joy  and  pain  ;  240 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  °Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

>  XXVIII 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  Avilderness,  250 

And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stepped. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  j)ee]Ded,  where,  lo !  —  how  fast 
she  slept. 

XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet:  — 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.    AGXES  195 

0  for  some  drowsy  Morpliean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone :  —         260 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar ed  Lebanon.  270 

XXXI 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 

"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 


196  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Ojjeu  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache.'' 

XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm  280 

Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be,    290 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  called,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  merci " : 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ;  — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan. 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  saak;  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 


TH^  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES  197 

XXXIV 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled     300 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep  ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV 

"  Ah,  Porphyro !  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 

Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear :  310 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 

,     Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVI 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 


198  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 

Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-ijanes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis  dark :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline ! " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  '.'         330 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  f orsakest  a  deceived  thing  — - 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed  ? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest. 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.    AGNES  199 

A  famished  pilgrim,  — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest         340 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  jMadeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX 

"  Hark !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  fairy  land; 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise  —  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ;  — 
The  bloated  wassaillers  will  never  heed  :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake  !  arise !  iny  love,  and  fearless  be,  350 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

XL 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  w^ith  fear, 

For  there  were  slee])ing  dragons  all  around, 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  speai-s ; 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 

A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 


200  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES 

Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


•^66 


XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans ; 

XLTI 

•    And  they  are  gone :  aye,  ages  long  ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 

For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


NOTES  —  SHELLEY 


To  A  Skylark 

P.  1,  1.  8.  Cloud  of  fire  :  What  is  it  that  is  like  a  cloud  of 
fire  ?  What  would  be  the  differeuce  in  meaning  were  the  semi- 
colon transferred  to  the  end  of  line  7  ? 

1.  15.  unbodied  joy :  Certain  critics  maintain  that  the  adjec- 
tive should  be  embodied,  and  that  it  was  so  intended  by  Shelley. 
Which  adjective  seems  to  agree  best  with  the  spirit  of  the  poem  ? 

The   Cloud 

P.  8,  1.  5.S.  And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee.  Com- 
pare Wordsworth's  Night  Piece  :  — 

"  And  above  his  head  he  sees 
The  clear  Moon,  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 
There  in  a  black-blue  vault  she  sails  along, 
Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small 
And  sharp,  and  bi-ight  along  the  dark  abyss 
Drive  as  she  drives." 

201 


202  NOTES  —  SHELLEY  [west  wind 

Ode   to  the  West  Wind 

■ '"' In  December  (1819)  the  last  act  of  Prometheus  Unbound  was 
brought  to  a  close.  Several  weeks  earlier,  on  a  day  when  the  tem- 
pestuous west  wind  was  collecting  the  vapors  which  pour  down 
the  autumnal  rains,  Shelley  conceived,  and  in  great  part  wrote, 
in  a  wood  that  skirted  the  Arno,  that  ode  in  which  there  is  a 
union  of  lyrical  breath  with  lyrical  intensity  unsurpassed  in 
English  song  — the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  ...  Harmonizing 
under  a  common  idea  the  forces  of  external  nature  and  the 
passion  of  the  writer's  individual  heart,  the  stanzas,  with  all 
the  penetrating  power  of  a  lyric,  have  something  almost  of  epic 
largeness  and  grandeur."  —  Dowden. 

P.  11,  1.  21.  Maenad:  a  bacchante  —  a  priestess  or  votary 
of  Bacchus. 

P.  12,  1.  41.  grow  gray  with  fear:  Shelley  explains  :  "The 
vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers  and  of  lakes,  sym- 
pathizes with  that  of  the  land  in  the  change  of  seasons,  and  is 
consequently  influenced  by  the  winds  which  announce  it." 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane 

Mrs.  Jane  Williams,  the  wife  of  Edward  Williams,  who  was 
drowned  with  Shelley,  was  a  warm  friend  of  the  Shelleys. 
Mrs.  Shelley  speaks  of  her  as,  — 

"  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye." 

Shelley  writes  of  them  as  "the  most  amiable  of  companions." 
The  poem  accompanied  the  gift  of  a  guitar, 

P.  14,  1,  1,  Ariel  to  Miranda:  The  complete  beauty  of  the 
poem  cannot  be  felt  without  acquaintance  with  TJie  Tempest. 


SENSITIVE  plant]       NOTES  —  SHELLEY  203 

The  Sensitive  Plant 

During  the  Shelleys'  sojourn  at  Pisa  one  of  their  most  con- 
genial friends  was  Mrs.  Mason  (Lady  Mountcashell).  She  had 
been  the  favorite  pupil  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  Mrs.  Shelley's 
mother,  thirty  years  before.  She  is  described  by  Medwin  as 
"a  superior  and  accomplished  Mroman,  a  great  resource  to 
Shelley,  who  read  with  her  Greek."  Medwin  further  states 
Mrs.  Mason  was  the  source  of  the  in.spiration  of  the  Sensitive 
Plants  and  that  "the  scene  of  it  was  laid  in  the  garden,  as  un- 
poetical  a  place  as  could  well  be  imagined." 

Miss  Clairmont's  account  is  suggestive  of  the  poem:  "Mrs. 
Mason  was  very  tall,  of  a  lofty  and  calm  presence.  Her  fea- 
tures were  regular  and  delicate  ;  her  large  blue  eyes  singularly 
well  set ;  her  complexion  of  a  clear  pale,  but  yet  full  of  life, 
and  giving  an  idea  of  health.  Her  countenance  beamed  mildly 
with  the  expression  of  a  refined,  cultivated,  and  highly  cheerful 
mind.  She  was  ever  all  hopefulness,  and  serenity,  and  benevo- 
lence ;  her  features  were  ever  irradiated  by  these  sentiments, 
and  at  the  same  time  by  sentiments  of  purity  and  unconscious 
sweetness  and  beauty." 

P.  23,  1.  54.  fabulous  asphodel  :  In  Greek  mythology  the  as- 
phodel covers  the  fields  of  Hades. 

1.  57.  to  roof  the  glow-worm :  Can  you  find  a  variation  of 
this  in  To  a  Skylark  ? 

P.  29,  1.  177.  Baiae,  a  seaport  near  the  central  western  coast 
of  Italy,  famous  as  a  pleasure  resort  during  the  first  centuries  of 
this  era.  The  ruins  of  many  castles  yet  mark  its  former  mag- 
nificence. 


204  NOTES — SHELLEY      [to  words  worth 

To  Wordsworth 

P.  36,  1.  3.     Childhood  and  youth  :  — 
"...  That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more." 

—  Tintern  Abbey. 

But  Wordsworth  finds  "  abundant  recompense." 

1.  7.  Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star  :  a  reference  to  Wordsworth's 
sympathy  with  the  principles  of  the  Frencli  Revolution  ;  of  its 
early  stages  he  writes  thus  in  The  Prehide :  — 

"  Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven." 

and  again :  — 

"  But  Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy, 
France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours, 
And  human  nature  seeming  born  again." 

1.  13.  Deserting  these  :  The  extremes  to  which  the  revolu- 
tionists went  did  not  meet  with  Wordsworth's  approval ;  France 
seemed  to  him,  — 

"  Impatient  to  put  out  the  hoh^  light 
Of  Liberty  that  yet  remained  on  earth!  " 

Compare  Browning's  Lost  Leader. 

To  Coleridge 

"  The  poem  beginning,  '  Oh,  there  are  spirits  of  the  air,'  was 
addressed  in  idea  to  Coleridge,  whom  he  never  knew  ;  and  at 
whose  character  he  could  only  guess  imperfectly  through  his 
writings,  and  accounts  he  heard  from  some  who  knew  him  well. 


TO  COLERIDGE]  NOTES —  SHELLEY  205 

He  regarded  his  change  of  opinions  as  rather  an  act  of  will  than 
conviction,  and  believed  that  in  his  inner  heart  he  would  be 
haunted  by  what  Shelley  considered  the  better  and  holier  aspi- 
rations of  his  youth."  —  Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley. 

I  have  often  questioned  whether  the  poem  has  reference 
(as  Mrs.  Shelley  observes)  to  Coleridge,  or  whether  it  was  not 
rather  addressed  in  a  despondent  mood  by  Shelley  to  his  own 
spirit.  —  DowDEN. 

P.  37,  1.  1.  spirits  of  the  air  :  The  first  stanza  suggests  The 
Ancient  Mariner  and  Christabel ;  according  to  Trelawny,  the 
former  was  recited  in  and  out  of  season  by  Shelley. 

1.  7.  With  mountatn  winds  :  While  Coleridge's  poetry  does 
not  mark  a  "return  to  nature"  so  strongly  and  directly  as 
Wordsworth's,  he  was  perhaps  the  real  leader  in  the  revolt  from 
eighteenth  century  standards.  But  see  his  Ode  to  Tranquil- 
lity and  A  Sunset. 

P.  38, 1.  27.  The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead  :  The  poetry  that 
entitles  Coleridge  to  a  place  in  the  first  class  of  English  poets 
was  all  written  in  a  year  (1797-1798).  His  visit  to  Germany 
changed  him  from  poet  to  philosopher. 

1.  30.  a  foul  fiend  :  Coleridge  resorted  to  opium  shortly 
after  his  return  from  Germany.  He  never  freed  himself  entirely 
from  its  effects  and  perhaps  its  use. 

Mont  Blanc 

"  The  poem,  Mont  Blanc,  was  composed  under  the  immedi- 
ate impression  of  the  deep  and  powerful  feelings  excited  by  the 
objects  which  it  attempts  to  describe  ;  and  as  an  undisciplined 
overflowing  of  the  soul   rests  its  claim  to  approbation  on  an 


206  NO TES  —  SHELLE  Y  [  mont  B  l a  nc 

attempt  to   imitate   tlie   untamable  wildness  and   inaccessible 
solemnity  from  wliich  these  feelings  sprang."  —  Shelley. 

P.  41,  1.  60,  Far  far  above  :  Study  carefully  lines  1-16,  and 
decide  how  far  the  "untamable  wildness  and  inaccessible  so- 
lemnity ' '  of  the  scene  have  been  imitated.  What  train  of  thought 
is  suggested  by  the  "  hunter's  bone  "  and  "  the  wolf  "  ? 

P.  42,  1.  80.  great  Mountain  :  The  same  idea  with  variations 
is  expressed  by  Lowell  :  — 

**  With  our  faint  heart  the  mountain  strives." 

—  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 

P.  43,  1.  96.  Power  dwells  apart :  "  Yet,  after  all,  I  cannot 
but  be  conscious,  in  much  of  what  I  write,  of  an  absence  of  that 
tranquillity  which  is  the  attribute  and  accompaniment  of 
power."  —  Shelley  to  Godwin. 

P.  44,  1.  128.  solemn  power:  Select  the  phrases  and  epithets 
in  stanza  v.  that  give  the  lines  such  relentless  force.  AVhat  rhe- 
torical reason  is  there  for  the  first  six  words  in  the  stanza  ? 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 

P.  45,  1.  1.  unseen  Power:  "The  reader  will  observe  how 
much  this  poem  has  in  common  with  Wordsworth's  great  ode, 
Intimations  of  Immortality."'  — Dowden. 

Arethusa 

The  poem  embodies  the  substance  of  a  Greek  myth.  Are- 
thusa was  a  woodland  nymph  beloved  by  the  river-god,  Alpheus. 
He  pursues  her,  and  Diana,  to  protect  the  nymph,  changes  her 
to  a  fountain.  When  he  attempts  to  mingle  his  stream  with 
the  waters  of  the  fountain,   Diana  thwarts  him   again.     The 


arethlsa]  notes — SHELLEY  207 

ground   is   cleft,    Arethusa   plunges   into   the   opening,  passes 
tlirougli  the  earth,  and  comes  out  in  Sicily. 

P.  55,  1.  1.  Arethusa  arose:  In  Shelley's  poem,  Arethusa  is' 
represented  as  a  mountain  brook  when  Alpheus  tirst  sees  her. 

Lines  avritten  Among  the  Euganean  Hills 

r.  68, 1.  116.  Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  :  Venice  had 
reached  her  zenith  in  the  fifteenth  century.  This  verse  is  an 
allusion  to  the  unique  custom  of  "Wedding  the  Adriatic,"  a 
ceremony  originated  by  the  Doge  in  1177. 

1.  123.     slave  of  slaves  :  Austria. 

P.  70, 1. 152.  Celtic  Anarch's  hold :  Shelley  is  obscure,  and  per- 
haps inaccurate.  He  is  thinking,  perhaps,  of  Napoleon  (though 
Napoleon  was  not  a  Celt),  who  ceded  the  Venetian  dominions  to 
Austria  (1797),  forced  it  to  relinqhish  this  territory  at  the 
battle  of  Austerlitz  (1805),  annexed  it  to  the  kingdom  of  Italy, 
making  himself  the  head  of  this  kingdom,  further  humiliated 
Austria  at  the  battle  of  Wagram  (1809),  and  rose  to  the  height 
of  his  power  in  1811  "  with  Russia  and  Denmark  his  allies,  and 
Austria  and  Prussia  completely  subject  to  his  will."  Venetia 
and  Lombardy  were  restored  by  the  Congress  of  Vienna  (Sep- 
tember, 1814,  and  June,  1815)  to  Austria,  who  practically  ruled 
Italy. 

1.  158.  memories  of  old  time:  Venice  is  first  in  importance 
amonu'  the  Italian  city-republics. 

1.  174.  tempest-cleaving  Swan :  Byron.  Is  the  epithet  ap- 
propriate ? 

P.  71,  1.  177.  evil  dreams  :  an  allusion,  perhaps,  to  Byron's 
poem,  The  Dream. 


208  NOTES — SHELLEY       [euganean  hills 

P.  72,  1.  204.  Mighty  spirit:  Shelley  writes:  "  It  (one  of 
Byron's  poems)  sets  him  not  only  above,  but  far  above,  all  the 
poets  of  the  day,  every  word  has  the  stamp  of  immortality.  I 
despair  of  rivalling  Lord  Byron,  as  well  I  may,  and  there  is  no 
other  with  whom  it  is  worth  contending." 

OZYMANDIAS 

P.  79,1.  1.  antique  land  :  Diodorns  describes  the  statue.  It 
was  thought  to  be,  he  says,  the  largest  in  Egypt,  the  foot  being 
seven  cubits  long.  It  was  thus  inscribed :  "I  am  Ozymandias, 
king  of  kings  ;  if  any  one  wishes  to  know  what  I  am  and  where 
I  lie,  let  him  surpass  me  in  some  of  my  exploits." 

1.  14.     far  away.     Compare  with  stanza  iii.  of  Munt  Blanc. 

A  Summer  Evening  Churchyard 

"The  summer  evening  that  suggested  to  him  the  poem  written 
in  the  churchyard  of  Lechlade  occurred  during  his  voyage  up 
the  Thames  in  1815.  ...  A  fortnight  of  a  bright,  warm  July 
was  spent  in  tracing  the  Thames  to  its  source.  He  never  spent 
a  season  more  tranquilly."  — Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley. 

P.  82,  1.  4.    In  duskier  braids  :  — 

*'  Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil." 

—  CoLLiNs's  Ode  to  Evening. 
In  atmosphere  the  two  poems  are  similar.     Compare  them. 

A  dona  IS 
Shelley  is  indebted  to  the  idyls  of  the  Greek  poets,  Theocri- 
tus, Bion,  and  Moschus,  for  many  of  the  ideas  and  much  of  the 


A  DON  A I  s  ]  NO  TES  —  SIIELLE  Y  209 

phraseology  in  his  elegy  on  Keats.  Baldwin  in  his  The.  Book 
of  Elegies  remarks  that  "they  [the  idyls]  have  been  imitated 
by  Spenser,  improved  upon  by  Milton,  parodied  by  Pope  and 
Gay,  copied  after  by  Shelley,  and  loved  and  admired  by  all 
poets," 

r.  92,  1.  1.  Adonais  :  a  name  coined  by  Shelley  ;  doubtless 
suggested,  however,  by  the  myth  of  Adonis.  Why  ?  Compare 
the  names  Adonais  and  Lycidas  in  point  of  fitness. 

P.  93, 1. 10.  mighty  Mother  :  Urania,  the  muse  of  astronomy. 
Literally,  "the  heavenly  one."  Shelley  seems  to  accept  the 
latter  and  to  identify  Urania  with  the  highest  spirit  of  lyrical 
poetry. 

P.  94,  1.  30.  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain :  Milton.  Who  are 
the  other  two  "sons  of  light  "  ? 

P.  95,  1.  48.     sad  maiden  :  Isabella.  —  Keats, 

P.  96,  1.  73.     quick  Dreams  :  the  poet's  thoughts. 

P.  100,  1.  145.  lorn  nightingale :  an  allusion  to  Keats's  Ode 
to  a  NUjhtingale. 

1.  151.  Curse  of  Cain  :  Shelley,  in  the  preface  to  Adonais^ 
exclaims,  "Miserable  man!  You,  one  of  the  meanest,  have 
wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of  the  workman- 
ship of  God.  Nor  shall  it  be  your  excuse  that,  murderer  as  you 
are,  you  have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none." 

P.  101,  1.  177.  Shall  that  alone  which  knows:  Explain  the 
figure.     What  is  the  "  intense  atom  "  ? 

P.  105,  1.  238.     unpastured  dragon  :  meaning  ? 

1.  240.  Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
Ex])l,iin, 

1,  250,     The  Pythian  of  the  age  :  Byron.     Why  Pythian  ? 


210  NOTES  —  SHELLEY  [adonais 

r.  106,  1.  208,  In  sorrow :  Byron  was  not  so  generous  ;  he 
speaks  thus  of  Keats  :  — 

"  John  Keats  —  who  was  killed  off  by  one  critique," 

and  again  :  — 

"  '  Who  killed  John  Keats  ?  ' 
'  I,'  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  aud  Tartarly  ; 
'  'Twas  one  of  my  feats.'  " 

1.269.  sweetest  lyrist:  Thomas  Moore.  "  Whether  Moore 
ever  showed  the  faintest  interest  in  or  grief  for  Keats,  I  know 
not." — W.  M.  RossETTi. 

P.  107, 1.  271.  Midst  others  of  less  note  came  one  frail  form. 
This  verse  with  the  thirty-five  following  refers  to  Shelley  him- 
self. 

P.  108,  1.  297.  A  herd-abandoned  deer :  Compare  Hamlet, 
III.,  2  :  — 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 
The  hart  ungalled  play  ; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep  — 
So  runs  the  world  away." 
also  Merchant  of  Venice :  — 

"  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death." 

P.  109,  1.  307.  softer  voice  :  "  Leigh  Hunt  was  Keats's  earli- 
est and  chief  poetical  friend  and  adviser."  ■ — Hales. 

He  mentioned  Shelley  and  Keats  in  the  Examiner  of  Decem- 
ber, 1816,  as  "young  poets"  who  "promised  to  bring  a  con- 
siderable addition  of  strength  to  the  new  school  of  English 


ADONAis]  NOTES — SHELLEY  211 

poetry/'  Keats's  manuscripts  (he  had  yet  published  nothing) 
in  particular,  "fairly  surprised"  him  "  with  the  truth  of  their 
ambition  and  ardent  grappling  with  nature."  Hunt  was  di- 
rectly instrumental  in  bringing  Shelley  and  Keats  together,  and 
in  making  them  personally  acquainted. 

P.  110,  1.  o40.  A  portion  of  the  Eternal :  Pantheism,  the  doc- 
trine that  the  universe,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  God.  This  con- 
ception, variously  modified,  is  popular  in  poetry.  Note  other 
instances  in  this  poem.  Tennyson  objects  to  the  theory  :  In 
Mcmoriam^  xlvii. 

P.  Ill,  1.  o57.     He  is  secure  :  etymology  of  "secure." 

P.  113,  1.  393.  mortal  lair:  Is  there  any  special  significance 
here  in  the  term  "  lair"  ?     Etymology  ? 

1.  399.  Chatterton  :  Thomas  Chatterton  was  born  in  1752 
and  died  in  1770.  Read  an  interesting  account  of  him  in 
Eighteenth  Century  Literature,  Gosse.  Keats  addresses  Chat- 
terton thus :  — 

"  Thou  art  among  the  stars 
Of  highest  heaven :  to  the  rolling  spheres 
Thou  sweetly  singest:  nought  thy  hymning  mars, 
Above  the  ingrate  world  and  human  fears." 

1.401.  Sidney:  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  born  in  1554  and 
died  in  1580.     Consult  Elizabethan  Literature,  Saintsbury. 

1.  404.  Lucan  :  Marcus  Annaeus  Lucanus  was  born  in  39 
A.n.  and  condemned  to  death  Xfy  Nero  in  65. 

P.  114, 1.  413.  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song:  Compare  Merchant* 
of  Venice,  V.,  i,  60. 

"  There's  not  the  smallest  orb  whicli  thou  behokl'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  auiiel  siniis, 


212  NOTES  — SHELLEY  ■     [adonais 

Still  quirini;  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins  ; 
Such  hiirinony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 

1.  416.     Fond  wretch  :  etymology  of  "fond"? 

r.  lie,  1.  444.  one  keen  pyramid  :  the  tomb  of  Caius  Cestius. 
In  a  letter  to  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  Shelley  writes  thus  of  the 
cemetery  :  "  The  English  burying-i^lace  is  a  green  slope  near 
the  walls  [of  Rome]  under  the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cestius,  and 
is,  I  think,  the  most  beautiful  and  solemn  cemetery  I  ever 
beheld.  To  see  the  sun  shining  on  its  bright  grass,  fresh  when 
we  visited  it  with  the  autumnal  dews,  and  hear  the  whispering 
of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees  which  have  over- 
grown the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  soil  which  is  stirring  in  the 
sun-warm  earth,  and  to  mark  the  tombs,  mostly  of  women  and 
young  people  who  were  buried  there,  one  might,  if  one  were  to 
die,  desire  the  sleep  they  seem  to  sleep.  Such  is  the  human 
mind,  and  so  it  peoples  with  its  wishes  vacancy  and  oblivion." 


NOTES  — KEATS 


Ode  to  a  Nigiitixgale 

P.  120,  1,  16.  Hippocrene:  A  spring,  sacred  to  the  Muses, 
on  Mount  Helicon  in  Boiotia. 

Ode  to  Psyche 

"  The  following  poem,  the  hist  I  have  written,  is  the  first  and 
only  one  with  which  I  have  taken  even  moderate  pains.  I  have, 
for  the  most  part,  dashed  off  my  lines  in  a  hurry  ;  this  one  I 
have  done  leisurely  ;  I  think  it  reads  the  more  richly  for  it,  and 
it  will,  I  hope,  encourage  me  to  write  other  things  in  even  a 
more  peaceful  and  healthy  spirit."  —  Keats,  to  his  brother 
George. 

P.  126,  1.  9.  two  fair  creatures  :  Ficad  the  myth  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche. 

P.  127,  1.  .30.    delicious    moan:     Compare    The   Eve    of  St. 


Agnes,  vii.,  2. 


To  Autumn 


"I  never  liked  stubble-fields  so  much  as  now  —  aye,  better 
than  the  chilly  green  of  spring.    Somehow  a  stubble-plain  looks 
^21:5 


214  XOTES  —  KKATS  [to  autumn 

warm,  in  the  same  way  that  some  pictures  look  warm.  This 
struck  me  so  much  in  my  Sunday's  walk  that  I  composed  upon 
it."  —  Keats  to  Reynolds. 

P.  129, 1. 14.  Thee  sitting :  Read  Gray's  ode  On  the  Spring, 
then  CoUins's  Passions.  Compare  the  two  poems  with  Keats's 
in  the  use  of  personification. 

Ode  oy  Melancholy 

P.  131.  1.  26.     sovran  shrine:  — 

"  The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dashed  with  wandering  isles  of  night." 

—  In  Memoriam,  xxiv. 
Fancy 

P.  132,  1.  21.    heavy  shoon  :  — 

'•And  the  dull  swain 
Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon." 

Milton's  Comus,  634-635. 

P.  133,  1.  46.  sticks  and  straw:  Note  the  onomatopoeia; 
compare :  — 

"The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed." 

—  Gray's  Elegy. 

P,  135, 1. 81.     Ceres'  daughter :  Compare  Milton's  description : 

"  Proserpin  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
"Was  gathered  —  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world." 

—  Paradise  Lost,  IV.,  269-272. 


chapman's  homer]      NOTES — KEATS  215 

On  First  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

Charles  Cowden  Clarke  and  Keats  had  read  Chapman  far 
into  the  night.  Pearly  the  next  morning  the  sonnet  was  handed 
to  Clarke.  It  was  written  in  1816  and  is 'considered  the  best  of 
Keats's  early  work. 

P.  140,  1.  8.  Chapman:  1557-1634.  He  was,  therefore,  a 
contemporary  of  Shakespeare's.  He  wrote  poetry  and  dramas, 
but  is  best  known  by  his  translation  of  Homer. 

1.  1 1.  Cortez  :  It  should  be  Balboa,  but  the  beauty  of  the 
poem  is  not  marred  by  the  error. 

Sonnet  to  Homer 

P.  14-],  1.  1.  giant  ignorance  :  an  allusion  to  Keats's  igno- 
rance of  the  Greek  language. 

1.  11.  a  budding  morrow:  "It  will  be  of  interest  to  many 
lovers  both  of  Keats  and  Rossetti  [D.  G.]  to  learn  that  the  latter 
poet,  whom  we  have  but  lately  lost,  considered  this  sonnet  to 
contain  Keats's  finest  single  line  of  poetry  — 

*  There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight,' 

a  line  which  Rossetti  told  me  he  thought  one  of  tlie  finest '  in  all 
poetry.'  "  —  Form  an. 

Compare  the  verse  with  stanza  iii.      0<lr  on  Mdancholy. 

I  STOon  Tip-toe  upon  a  Little   Hill 

"  Mr.  Keats  is  seen  to  his  best  advantage  [in  this  poemj,  and 
displays  all  that  fertile  power  of  association  and  imagery  which 


21 G  NOTES  —  KEATS         [i  stood  tip-toe 

constitutes  the  abstract  poetical  faculty  as  distinguished  from 
every  other." — Leigh  Hunt. 

Po  146,  1.  18,     its  brim :  Note  tlie  point  of  view. 
P.  147,  1.  22.    jaunty  :  meanhig  ? 

1.  20.  bees  about  them  :  cf .  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  stanza  v. ; 
also  To  Autumn,  stanza  i. 

1.  38.     frequent  chequer  =  frequent  checker  ;  shadows  alter- 
nating with  patches  of  sunshine. 
P.  149,  1.  73.     wavy  bodies  :  — 

"  A  shoal 
Of  devious  minnows  wheel  from  where  a  pike 
Lurked  balanced  'neath  the  lily  pad,  and  whirl 
A  rood  of  silver  bellies  to  the  day." 

—  Lowell. 

Under  the  Willows  is  throughout  strikingly  suggestive   of 
Keats's  poem. 
♦  P.  150,  1.  02.     yellow  flutterings  :  Explain. 

P.  151,  1.  120.     staid:  regular,. grave,  calm. 

P.  152, 1. 1G2.  Narcissus :  Because  of  his  insensibility  to  love 
he  was  made  to  worship  his  own  image  in  the  water.  He  was 
finally  changed  to  the  flower  which  bears  his  name.  Echo, 
whose  love  for  him  was  not  returned,  died  of  grief. 

Isabella  ;  or,  the  Pot  of  Basil. 

The  story  is  told  by  Boccaccio,  Decamerone,  Giorn,  IV., 
Nov.  5. 

'  P.  IGG,  1.  200.  murdered  man  :  "  The  following  masterly  an- 
ticipation of  his  end,  conveyed  in  a  single  word,  has  been  justly 
admired.''  —  Leigh  Hunt. 


ISABELLA]  NOTES  —  KEATS  217 

P.  IT)!),  1.  262.  Hinnom's  vale  :  the  valley  of  Hinnom  where 
Moloch  was  worshipped.  Compare  Milton's  description  in  Para- 
dise Lost,  I.,  i-j02-405,  also  Moloch's  speech,  II.,  51-105. 

P.  175,  1.  393.  Persean  sword  :  the  sword  with  which  Perseus 
slew  Medusa,  one  of  the  three  gorgons. 

P.  178,  1.  442.     Melpomene:  the  muse  of  tragedy. 

1.451.  Baalites  of  pelf:  those  who  worship  money  as  the 
pagans  worship  Baal. 

P.  180,  1.  493.     the  Pilgrim :  This  does  not  refer  to  Lorenzo. 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 
"  St.  Agnes  was  a  Roman  virgin,  who  suffered  martyrdom  in 
the  reign  of  Diocletian.  Her  parents,  a  few  days  after  her 
decease,  are  said  to  have  had  a  vision  of  her,  surrounded  by 
angels,  and  attended  by  a  white  lamb  which  afterward  became 
sacred  to  her.  In  the  Catholic  Church,  formerly,  the  nuns  used 
to  bring  a  couple  of  lambs  to  her  altar  during  Mass.  The  super- 
stition is  that  by  taking  certain  measures  of  divination,  damsels 
may  get  a  sight  of  their  future  husbands  in  a  dream.  The 
ordinary  process  seems  to  have  been  by  fasting." 

—  Leigh  Hunt. 

St.  Agnes's  Day  is  January  21  ;  St.  Agnes's  Eve,  January 
20. 

P.  183,  1.  31.  snarling  trumpets:  Does  the  adjective  denote 
a  (pality  of  the  sound,  or  is  it,  from  Porphyro's  point  of  view, 
descriptive  of  the  situation  ? 

P.  188,  1.  120.     witch's  sieve:  Compare  Macbeth,  I.,  iii.,  8. 

P.  190, 1.  171.  Merlin  paid  his  Demon :  "  The  monstrous  debt 
was  his  monstrous  existence  which  he  owed  to  a  demon  and 


218  NOTES  —  KEATS  [st.  agnes 

repaid  when  he  died  or  disappeared  through  the  working  of  one 
of  his  own  spells  by  Viviane."  —  Forman. 

Compare  Tennyson's  Vivian  in  Idylls  of  the  King. 

P.  193,  1.  218.  gules:  "How  proper,  as  well  as  pretty,  the 
heraldic  term  gules^  considering  the  occasion.  Bed  would  not 
have  been  a  fiftieth  part  as  good."  —  Leigh  Hunt. 

P.  194,  1.  241.  where  swart  Paynims  pray  :  Paynim  :  pagan. 
Therefore  a  missal  would  be  treasured  more  highly  because  of 
dangerous  surroundings. 


INDEX   TO   NOTES 


Adonais,  208. 
Arethusa,  20(). 
Austerlitz,  battle  of,  207. 
Austria,  207. 
Autumn,  Ode  to,  213. 

Baiae,  203. 

Balboa,  215. 

Baldwin,  The  Book  of  Elegies, 

209. 
Bion,  208. 
Boccaccio,  216. 
Browning,  Lost  Leader,  204 
Byron,  207,  201>,  210. 

The  Dream,  207. 

Cestius,  Caius,  212. 

Chapman,  215. 

Chatterton,  211. 

Churchyard,  A  Summer  Evening, 

208. 
Clairmont,  Miss,  203. 
Cloud,  The,  201. 
Coleridge,  Sonnet  to,  204. 

Ancient  Mariner,  205. 


Coleridge,  Christabel,  205. 

Ode  to    Tranquillity 

205. 
A  Sunset,  205. 
Collins,  Ode  to  Evening,  208. 

The  Passions,  214. 
Cortez,  215. 

Denmark,  207. 
Diocletian,  217. 
Dowden,  202,  205,  206. 

Egypt,  208. 

Euganean  Hills,   Lines    written 

among,  207. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  217. 

Forman,  H.  B.,  215,  218. 

France,  204. 

French  Revolution ,  204. 

Gay,  209. 

Godwin,  William,  206. 
Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Lit- 
erature, 211. 


219 


220 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


Gray,  Elegy,  214. 

Gray,  Ode  on  Spring,  214. 

Hades,  fields  of,  203. 
Hales,  210. 
Hamlet,  210. 
Hippocrene,  213. 

Homer,   On  First  Looking   into 
Chapman's,  215. 
Sonnet  to,  215. 
Hunt,  210,  216,  217,  218. 

I  stood  Tip-toe  upon  a  Little  Hill, 

215. 
Isabella ;  or  the  Pot  of  Basil,  216. 
Italy,  Kingdom  of.  207. 

Keats,  George,  213. 

John,  209,  210,  211,  215. 


206. 

Under  the  Willows,  216. 
Lucan,  211. 

Mason, Mrs.  (LadyMountcashell), 

203. 
Medwin,  203. 
Melancholy,  Ode  on,  214. 
Merchant  of  Venice,  210,211. 
Milton,  Lycidas,  209. 

Comus,  214. 
Mont  Blanc,  205. 
Moore,  210. 
Moschus,  208. 


Napoleon,  207. 

Narcissus,  216. 

Nero,  211. 

Nightingale,  Ode  to,  209,  213. 

Ozymandias,  208. 

Peacock,  212. 
Perseus,  217. 
Pisa,  203. 
Pope,  209. 
Prussia,  207. 
Psyche,  Ode  to,  213. 

Keynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  214. 
Rossetti,  W.  M.,  210. 
D.  G.,  214. 
Russia,  207. 

Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Litera- 
ture, 211. 
Sensitive  Plant,  The,  203. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  202,  205,  210. 
Mrs.,  203,  205,208. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  211. 
Skylark,  Ode  to,  201. 
Spenser,  209. 

Tempest,  The,  202. 
Tennyson,   In    Memoriam,    211, 
214. 
Idylls  of  the  King,  2ia 
Thames.  The,  208. 
Theocritus,  208. 
Trelawny,  205. 


INDEX   TO  NOTES 


221 


Urania,  200. 

Venice,  207. 

Vienna,  Congress  of,  207. 

AVagram,  battle  of,  207. 
AVest  Wind,  Ode  to,  202. 
Williams,  Edward,  202. 
Wollstonecraft,  Mary,  203. 


Wordsworth,  205. 

Prelude,  204. 

Sonnet  to,  204. 

Tintern  Abbey, 
203. 

Night  Piece,  201. 

Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality, 20G. 


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